of  California 
Q  Regional 
y  Facility 


WALTER 
SOMERVILLE 


; 


'LIAR!    LIAR  !    LIAR!" 


Frontispiece.    Page  220. 


THE  WOLF 

BY 

EUGENE  WALTER 

Author  of  "Paid  in  Full,"  Etc. 


Founded  on  the  Play  by 

CHARLES  SOMEEVILLE 


Illustrated  from  flashlights  taken  of  Sam  S.  and 
Lee  Shubert's,  Inc.'s  production  of  "The  Wolf." 
Permission  of  Sam  S.  and  Lee  Shubert,  Inc. 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 


THE  WOLF 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  IMGE 

I  THE    CONFESSION               ....  9 

II      ANNETTE                      22 

III      HILDA 34 

IV  THE    BAD    WOMAN             ....  50 

V      THE   WOLF                  65 

VI  "SHE  MUST  TAKE  CAEE  OF  HERSELF"    .  85 

VII  CONSCIENCELESS                 ....  105 

VIII  THE    UNEXPECTED             ....  121 

IX      THE    DUPE                  135 

X  "STAND  ON  TOUR  FEET  AND  FIGHT"      .  156 

XI  THE  GREAT  DESIRE           .            .            .            .178 

XII  THROWN   TO    THE   WOLF            .            .            .  198 

XIII  "YOU  CAN'T  DO  IT"       ....  216 

XIV  "WHEN  YOU  SHOOT — KILL"         .        .  222 

XV      THE    FLIGHT 241 

XVI      THE   PURSUIT 255 

XVII  THE  LAW  OF  THE  WILDERNESS        .            .  277 

XVIII     "i  LOVE  YOU" 288 

XIX  THE    DEATH    DUEL            ....  305 

XX  FATHEfi   SEBASTIAN  318 


2138404  ' 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"Liar,  Liar,  Liar  I"  Frontispiece  220 

"  JTis  her  business  to  haul  the  water.  Weemen  are 

worth  nothin*  but  work"  45 

'Then,  Hilda,  the  world  is  full  of  love" 191 

There  was  that  in  the  kiss  .  .  .  that  made  the  girl 

writhe  and  struggle  for  release  from  his  arms.  214 

"Wait  one  moment,  M'sieur  McTavish" 227 

They  were  ever  on  the  alert  with  their  rifles  at  the 

slightest  sound 263 

"The  great  desire  has  been  mine,  and  it  is  yours, 

and  it  will  be  ours  forever,  Hilda" 293 

"Damn  your  knife!  I'll  make  you  eat  it!" 315 


The  Wolf 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  CONFESSION 

Jules  Beaubien  arrived  in  all  anxiety  at  his 
father's  house.  It  was  a  stout  old  stone  struc- 
ture lying  back  of  a  wooded  slope  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  City  of  Montreal.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  man- 
sion. The  Beaubien  family  had  for  generations 
dealt  profitably  in  the  lumber  of  the  great 
Canadian  forests.  They  were  of  a  line  of  the 
sturdiest  of  the  French  adventurers  that  had 
settled  Canada. 

The  old  mansion  had  known  its  decades  of 
generous  hospitality  and  joy  and  laughter.  But 
for  some  years  now  it  had  been  a  lonely  home — 
the  abode  only  of  the  master  of  the  house  and  a 

9 


THE     WOLF 

half  score  old  servants.  Jules'  mother  died  when 
he  was  a  lad  of  twelve,  and  after  that  there  had 
been  years  spent  away  at  school  and  college. 
Only  now  and  then  had  father  and  son  found 
themselves  together  in  the  family  hall. 

Yet  there  had  always  been  the  gentle  under- 
standing of  genuine  affection  between  the  man 
and  boy.  And  the  summons  that  had  found 
Jules  out  in  his  bungalow  in  the  woods,  where  he 
had  gone  for  the  autumn  shooting,  had  carried 
its  natural  consequences  of  shock  and  grief,  for  it 
had  told  him  that  his  father  was  dying. 

The  illness  had  been  quite  sudden.  There  had 
been  no  forewarning  that  the  man's  life  was  near 
its  end.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  only  turned 
the  three-score  mark,  and  seemed  to  have  many 
years  before  him.  But  Jules,  having  passed  the 
silent  servants  who  met  him  in  the  hallway  with 
a  nod  of  sympathy  to  do  for  all,  entered  the  sick- 
chamber,  and  a  first  glance  at  his  father  told  him 
10 


THE    WOLF 

that  death  must  be  hovering  very  near.  The 
face  was  shrunken,  the  lips  were  pallid,  the  eyes 
almost  without  the  light  of  life  in  them. 

As  between  two  men  facing  such  a  crisis,  there 
were  no  words  at  first;  merely  »  silent,  long  pres- 
sure of  hands. 

"I  am  glad,  my  son;  glad  that  you  have  come 
to  me  in  time.  There  is,  of  course,  a  great  deal 
that  I  might  say  to  you  now  that  you  will  have 
to  take  up  the  responsibilities  of  our  properties. 
And  yet,  after  all,  not  so  much  is  needed  in 
regard  to  that,  for  everything  is  in  good  shape 
Our  attorney  is  perfectly  trustworthy  and  cai. 
make  everything  clear  to  you — just  as  clear  as  I 
could  myself. 

"But  there  is  another  matter,  my  son.  And 
this — this  will  be  harder  for  me  to  tell  you,  and 
yet  this  I  must  tell  you,  Jules.  It  is  the  most 
sacred  charge  of  all  that  I  am  leaving  to  you." 

The  old  man  closed  his  eyes  a  little  while  and 
11 


THE     WOLF 

opening  them  again,  indicated  to  his  son  a  bottle 
on  a  table  nearby.  It  contained  a  powerful 
stimulant  left  by  the  physician  to  ward  off  the 
complete  collapse  that  might  overtake  the  sick 
man  during  the  ordeal  of  his  last  interview  with 
his  boy. 

Having  given  his  father  the  medicine  according 
to  the  directions  to  be  read  on  the  bottle,  Jules 
leaned  near  the  pillow  and  listened  to  the  sur- 
prising revelation  made  in  the  whispering,  weak 
voice  of  the  dying: 

"Jules,"  said  his  parent,  "you  are  not  alone  the 
heir  to  my  fortune.  In  law — in  law,  yes,  I  think 
you  would  be  considered  the  only  one.  But  you 
are  a  man  of  honor,  Jules,  and  you  would  help 
your  father  right  a  wrong — would  you  not, 
Jules?" 

His  son  nodded  quickly  in  assent. 

Outside,  the  twilight  settled  among  the  great 
oak  trees,  and  gusts  of  winter-threatening  winds 
12 


THE     WOLF 

sent  the  brown  leaves  flapping  against  the  panes 
in  the  big  bow  window.  And  with  this  monotony 
made  by  the  wind  and  leaves — a  sad  forest  voice 
sounding  without — Jules  leaning  over  his  father's 
pillow  heard  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  of  the 
existence  of  his  little  sister,  Annette. 

The  business  of  Beaubien  pere  had  necessi- 
tated many  trips  into  the  far-off  forest  land 
where  he  had  made  his  contracts  for  the  purchase 
of  lumber.  It  had  been  on  a  trip  made  twenty 
years  ago  to  the  Nipissing  country  that  he  had 
met  a  squaw  of  the  Ojibway  tribe.  In  her  slender 
youthfulness,  her  great  brown-eyed  simplicity, 
she  was  very  beautiful.  The  sin  was  quite 
commonplace  among  the  white  men  who  had 
invaded  the  primitive  homes  of  the  forest  tribes 
—with  its  consequent,  the  "marriage"  that  wa-, 
no  marriage  at  all. 

Annette  was  born.  The  day  that  she  opened 
her  eyes  on  the  world — great,  brown  trustful  eyes— 
13 


THE    WOLF 

eyes  like  her  mother's,  the  mother  herself  had 
given  up  her  life.  She  had  died  in  full  faith  that 
her  marriage  had  been  all  that  it  should  be;  and 
she  had  died  in  full  faith  that  the  father  whose 
mysterious  "affairs"  kept  him  far  from  her  bed- 
side at  the  hour  of  her  death  would  come  to  claim 
his  little  child. 

But  this  Beaubien  the  elder  had  not  dared  to 
do.  His  means  permitted  him  to  exercise  some 
sort  of  protection  over  the  little  one.  He  caused 
her  adoption  by  a  French-Canadian  family  in 
the  valley  of  the  Nipissing,  where  Annette  was 
born.  In  the  rude  schools,  but  in  the  fresh,  in- 
vigorating air  of  the  woods,  the  child  had  grown 
into  maidenhood. 

"  I  myself  have  never  dared  to  see  her  although 
I  have  longed  most  sincerely  from  time  to  time 
for  a  sight  of  the  little  girl,"  whispered  the  dying 
Beaubien.  "But  they  told  me  she  had  grown 
up  to  be  very  beautiful  and  to  be  more  French 
14 


THE    WOLF 

than  Indian  in  appearance  and  character;  that 
she  showed  signs  of  real  caste  in  breeding  and  a 
disposition  all  tenderness  and  goodness.  Now 
that  your  mother  has  been  dead  so  many  years, 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  bring  the  little  girl  to 
our  home;  to  give  her  the  full  rights  and  recog- 
nition that  belonged  to  her;  to  send  her  to  the 
best  educational  institutions;  in  short,  I  meant 
to  make  her  my  daughter  in  everything.  For 
some  time  also  I  hesitated  to  do  so  on  your  ac- 
count. You  have  been  a  worthy  son.  I  did  not 
know  if  you  could  forgive  me;  if  you  could  wel- 
come this  little  girl.  But,  Jules,  as  you  have 
grown  into  manhood  I  have  understood  and 
appreciated  what  a  great,  generous  heart  is  in 
your  breast.  There  have  been  countless  acts  of 
yours  of  which  I  have  come  to  know  that  have 
decided  me  that  you  would  join  with  me  heartily 
in  giving  this  little  half-sister  of  yours  the  ad- 
vantages of  wealth  and  education. 

15 


THE    WOLF 

"But  when  I  would  have  done  this,  there  sud- 
denly came  over  the  good  people  in  whose  care 
I  had  left  Annette,  a  strange  silence.  My 
letters  to  them  have  remained  unanswered. 
Perhaps  they  have  grown  to  love  the  child 
so  much  that  they  do  not  wish  to  part  with 
her.  But  in  all  fairness  to  her,  her  fu- 
ture must  lie  in  our  hands — in  your  hands, 
my  son. 

"And  that  is  why  I  have  spoken.  It  is  to  ask 
you  for  your  promise  that  when  my  eyes  have 
been  closed  for  the  last  time,  you  will,  without 
loss  of  time,  seek  out  your  sister — you  do  not 
mind  my  calling  her  your  sister,  Jules? — and 
take  charge  of  her  future,  that  you  will  give  her 
your  protection  and,  perhaps,  your  love,  my  son, 
for  after  all  she  is  of  our  blood  and  that,  itself, 
wilf  make  its  own  strong,  silent  appeal  to  the 
heart  of  a  Beaubien." 

The  man's  head  had  fallen  back  on  the  pillow. 
16 


THE     WOLF 

There  had  come  into  his  eyes  the  very  glaze  of 
death  itself. 

He  could  barely  whisper  the  final  words  of 
instruction  to  Jules  that  informed  the  young  man 
where  could  be  found  the  correspondence  with 
the  La  Porte  family  in  whose  care  Annette  had 
been  left  and  which  would  contain  in  itself 
sufficient  direction  to  aid  him  in  the  search  for 
his  half-sister. 

Beaubien  pere  only  lived  long  enough  after 
that  to  hear  his  son's  earnest  assurance  that 
Annette  should  be  sought  and  found,  and  that 
having  been  found  would  be  cared  for  and  en- 
dowed with  all  of  her  father's  wealth  that  her 
needs  should  demand.  In  short,  Jules  promised 
to  give  her  all  the  love  and  protection  that  she 
might  expect  had  she  been  born,  as  he  was,  in  the 
great,  old  mansion  of  the  Beaubien  family. 

And  this  assurance  made  his  father's  death 

wholly  peaceful. 

I 

17 


THE     WOLF 

Upon  this  promise  to  his  dying  father  is  founded 
the  tragic  story  of  what  befell  Jules  Beaubien — 
of  his  own  romance  that  he  found  out  in  the 
wilderness,  of  the  strategy  and  courage  with 
which  he  met  and  defeated  his  great  enemy,  and 
of  the  stirring  adventures  that  terminated  in  a 
deadly  duel — all  growing  out  of  the  quest  that 
began  some  few  days  after  his  father  had  been 
laid  at  rest  and  he  sought  the  Nipissing  country 
to  find  his  little  half-sister,  Annette. 

It  is  fitting  that  the  reader  should  know  more 
of  Beaubien  as  he  begins  this  journey  lest  he 
should  be  regarded  as  merely  the  type  of  the  rich 
man's  son — easy  in  morals,  easy  in  love,  easy  in 
principle. 

That  is  the  type  of  young  man  that  belongs 
more  absolutely  to  the  larger  cities;  that  is  the 
type  of  young  man  who  has  not  known,  as  young 
Beaubien  had  known  since  he  was  big  enough 
to  shoulder  a  gun,  the  life  of  woods  and  camp; 

18 


THE     WOLF 

the  life  of  physical  prowess  that  preserves  the 
nerves  and  the  sanity  of  youth;  that  does  even 
more — that  preserves  the  decency  of  young  men. 

The  forest  and  its  lively  air,  its  primitive  at- 
mosphere of  self-dependence;  its  almost  hourly 
demand  for  displays  of  personal  courage  founded 
on  physical  effort,  had  done  more  than  make 
Beaubien  a  decent  fellow.  It  had  made  him 
sympathetic  with  those  less  fortunate  in  life's 
station  than  himself.  It  had  brought  him  in 
touch  with  the  rugged  trappers  and  lumbermen 
and  their  no  less  rugged  families.  It  had  made 
a  wholesome  democrat  of  him.  It  had  made  of 
him,  of  course,  an  admirable  specimen  of  physical 
manhood.  He  was  tall  and  straight  and  lithe. 
His  skin  was  brown  and  smooth  with  a  tinge  of 
red  color  fighting  to  show  beneath.  His  blood 
flowed  freely  and  with  strength. 

Beaubien  had  known  in  a  small  way  the 
temptations  of  the  city.  He  had  been  a  lively 
19 


THE     WOLF 

youngster  in  his  student  days  that  had  only 
barely  gone  into  the  past.  At  the  time  of  his 
father's  death  he  was  twenty -five  years  old. 
The  pranks  of  extreme  youth  were  behind  him. 
And  when  he  searched  his  own  desires  he  found 
them  more  strongly  calling  him  to  the  beautiful 
forests,  to  the  excitements  of  the  hunt,  than  they 
ever  could  claim  him  for  the  divertisements  of 
the  ballroom  or  the  pleasures  of  the  cafe. 

He  was  untouched  by  the  cynicism  of  college- 
mates  of  affected  worldliness.  He  believed  in 
the  old-fashioned  virtues;  he  was  a  disciple  of 
honesty;  he  was  a  follower  of  the  ancient  religion 
of  Rome. 

Simple,  almost  unsophisticated,  if  you  will, 
but  nevertheless  clean,  manly,  with  a  straight 
eye  and  a  steady  hand — this  was  the  Jules  Beau- 
bien  who  had  been  entrusted  with  the  finding  of 
little  Annette  and  of  the  task  of  righting  the 
wrong  that  her  hidden  father  had  placed  upon 
20 


THE     WOLF 

her  from  her  cradle;  this  was  the  Jules  Beaubien 
who,  a  few  days  after  his  father  had  been  laid  at 
rest,  had  a  long  talk  with  the  estate's  attorney; 
arranged  business  affairs  looking  toward  his  own 
absence  and  set  out  with  a  heart  all  generously 
inclined,  to  find  a  half-breed  Indian  maiden  and 
return  with  her  to  his  father's  house  and  compel 
that  social  world  of  Montreal  to  whom  the  name  of 
Beaubien  stood  as  most  representative  of  the  new 
aristocracy  of  the  new  country,  to  bid  her  wel- 
come as  his  father's  child. 


21 


CHAPTER  II 

ANNETTE 

Until  Jules  Beaubien,  having  made  his  way  to 
the  Nipissing  country,  had  found  Baptiste  Le 
Grand,  his  quest  of  Annette  had  been  a  great 
puzzlement.  The  family  that  had  cared  for 
Annette  had  moved  from  the  valley.  The  parish 
priest  had  been  making  a  long  tour  to  some  of 
the  outlying  lumber  camps,  taking  the  Gospel 
to  the  isolated  workers,  and  others  whom  he 
met  and  asked  of  Annette  had  told  him  nothing. 
They  had  looked  upon  his  youth  and  good  looks, 
and  demanded  rather  sharply  why  he  asked  of 
her  whereabouts,  and  when  he  frankly  told  them 
that  he  was  her  brother  come  to  seek  her — come 
to  show  her  wealth  and  high  social  station — they 
had  moved  away  from  him,  refusing  answer. 
They  had  only  to  say: 

22 


THE     WOLF 

"Speak  with  Ba'tiste  Le  Grand;  he  knows— 
Ba'tiste  Le  Grand,  he  can  tell  you  the  story  of 
Annette." 

Of  the  whereabouts  of  this  Le  Grand  they  could 
tell  him  little.  But  they  bade  him  await  in 
patience  the  return  of  this  hunter.  He  would  be 
back  in  the  village  within  a  week,  they  said, 
ready  to  ship  his  game  and  the  hides  to  the 
markets. 

Beaubien,  perforce,  waited. 

He  thought  sorely  of  this  Le  Grand.  Did  all 
this  secrecy  mean  that  Le  Grand  had  wronged 
the  girl ;  that  she  had  gone  away  in  the  wilderness 
to  live  as  an  Indian  woman  might,  and  not  as  a 
girl  who  had  been  brought  up  in  religion  and 
with  some  learning  at  least?  What  in  the 
world  did  it  mean? 

Baptiste  Le  Grand  was  to  tell  him  all  about 
Annette;  or  rather  Baptiste  was  to  sit  there  most 
of  the  time,  a  young,  squat,  strong-shouldered 
23 


THE    WOLF 

man  of  the  woods,  and  listen  with  fiercely  glowing 
eyes  while  Father  Paul  told  the  story — the 
piteous,  horrible  story  of  Annette. 

Baptiste  had  Father  Paul  as  his  passenger  in 
his  canoe.  In  the  humble  cottage  that  was  the 
pastorate,  Jules,  seeking  Father  Paul,  found  also 
Baptiste  Le  Grand.  And  when  he  inquired  con- 
cerning Annette,  Baptiste  had  leaped  to  his  feet 
and  glared  at  him  and  demanded  to  know  in- 
stantly who  he  was  and  why  he  made  inquiry. 

Then  Jules  told  of  the  death  of  his  father;  of 
the  confession  of  the  death-bed,  and  both  Father 
Paul  and  Le  Grand  knew  that  Jules  was  telling 
the  truth,  because  little  Annette  had  told  of  this 
mysterious  father  to  the  priest,  her  confessor; 
to  Baptiste  Le  Grand,  to  whom  she  had  been 
betrothed. 

Baptiste  began  the  story  of  Annette.  But 
scarcely  had  he  begun  when  he  cursed  and  was 
seized  with  a  rage  that  was  utterly  mad  so  that 
24 


THE     WOLF 

Father  Paul  signified  to  him  that  he  was  to  do 
no  more  talking.  The  little  priest  then  took  up 
the  account  of  the  hopelessly  tragic  adventures 
of  Annette. 

"I  am  afraid,"  began  the  good  father,  "that 
I  myself  am  not  without  some  blame.  I  am 
afraid  that  I  have  frowned  too  sternly;  that  I 
misjudged;  that  I  believed  it  in  the  beginning  an 
offence  that  indicated  that  the  girl  had  not 
profited  by  the  teachings  of  the  Church.  This 
pained  and  astounded  me.  For  Annette  had 
always  seemed  more  French  than  Indian.  None 
of  her  instincts  had  indicated  the  savage;  none 
of  her  thoughts  had  seemed  otherwise  than 
gentle  and  pure.  And  now  that  I  know  fully 
all  the  agony  of  shame  that  the  child  suffered, 
all  the  deadly  despair  that  preyed  upon  her — 
ah,  it  shall  be  a  long,  long  time  before  I  will  for- 
give myself  for  the  severity  with  which  I  looked 
upon  her  child's  face.  Of  course,  I  had  meant 
25 


THE    WOLF 

that  forgiveness  should  in  the  end  be  fully  given 
her.  But  in  my  duty  to  the  moral  discipline 
of  my  congregation,  I  withheld  for  a  few  days 
this  forgiveness.  The  result  was  frightful.  Per- 
haps in  any  event  it  would  have  been  the  same. 
Perhaps  no  comfort  could  have  been  given  the 
child  in  her  shame." 

The  priest  sighed  and  continued: 

"Jules  Beaubien,  you  see  I  have  not  spared 
myself;  I  will  tell  you  all  concerning  Annette. 

"In  the  beginning,  you  must  know  that  she 
was  the  fairest  and  sweetest  girl  in  the  Nipissing 
valley.  This  with  my  own  eyes,  although  re- 
luctantly, I  could  not  help  but  observe. 

"That  she  was  devout  and  of  the  gentlest  and 
sweetest  disposition  I  also  observed  with  rejoic- 
ings of  my  heart.  And  so  modest  and  shy  was 
Annette  that  although  I  had  often  a  worried 
heart  over  other  of  the  maidens  of  the  flock,  with 
her  I  never  had  concern  of  this  kind." 
26 


THE     WOLF 

Beaubien  was  left  gripping  his  chair,  for  the 
priest  fell  suddenly  into  staring  at  the  floor  and 
Le  Grand  stared  also,  so  that  the  silence  became 
intolerable. 

"Well— well?"  demanded  Jules.  "There  was 
a  man — a  man  who  betrayed  her?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest. 

"But  she  was  but  a  child,  Father." 

"Eighteen  years  old,  my  son,  and  here  in  the 
woodlands  a  maiden  is  ranked  at  womanhood 
when  she  is  eighteen.  But  it  had  all  been  settled. 
She  was  to  have  married  Ba'tiste  Le  Grand. 

"In  your  eyes,  M'sieur  Le  Grand  may  not 
appear  so  splendid  a  choice.  But  here  in  the 
woods,  M'sieur  Ba'tiste  is  accounted  a  man  of 
first  quality — sturdy  in  labor,  clean  in  habits,  of 
great  Christian  heart." 

"I  know — I  know  the  kind  of  man,"  said 
Jules,  with  an  impatient  gesture.  "Oh,  I  know 
men  of  the  woods,  Father  Paul.  I  love  them  as 
37 


THE     WOLF 

I  do  the  forest  they  inhabit.  But  that  is  why 
I  am  doubly  pained  at  what  you  tell — that  a  man 
of  the  woods  could  so  have  offended  against  the 
innocence  and  purity  of  Annette." 

"Non — non,"  cried  Le  Grand.    "He  was  not 
of  us!    He  was  a  stranger  to  us!     He  was — 
he  clenched  his  hands,  emotion  oppressing  him  so 
that  he  could  not  speak. 

"He  was  as  I  have  heard,"  said  Father  Paul, 
"a  consummately  villainous  man.  The  simple 
folk  did  not  even  know  his  name.  But  he  was 
an  American — from  New  York — a  chief  of  en- 
gineers— a  man  quite  old  enough  to  have  been 
Annette's  father.  One  hardly  can  learn  how  the 
meeting  came  about.  Still,  these  engineering 
parties  are  numerous  in  our  wilderness  in  these 
days  of  vast  railroad  enterprises. 

"Poor  little  Annette,  she  hardly  told  her  story 
— not — not  even  to  me.    To  some  of  the  women 
in  her  days  of  delirium,  she  whispered  or  cried  out 
28 


THE     WOLF 

of  her  wrongs — the  man's  interest  that  had 
appeared  so  kindly;  the  tales  he  told  her  of  his 
greatness  and  his  wealth;  the  fascinations  of  the 
great  cities  with  which  he  filled  her  ears;  the 
marriage  that  he  promised  and  then — then  he 
disappeared." 

"What  kind  of  a  man  of  the  woods  were  you— 
what  kind  of  a  man  at  all,  Ba'tiste  Le  Grand," 
cried  Jules  Beaubien,  "you  who  the  priest  tells 
me  were  her  honest  lover,  that  you  stood  by  to 
see  all  this  happen — that  you  did  not  take  your 
gun  and  kill- 
Father  Paul's  hand  went  up  in  warning.  Le 
Grand  was  staring  sullenly  at  Beaubien. 

"Ba'tiste  did  not  know.  He  had  gone  to  work 
during  the  winter  with  the  Hudson  Bay  Company 
— far — far  in  the  north.  When  he  returned— 
when  he  returned  there  was  nothing  to  be  done," 
the  priest  murmured. 
"Nothing— why?" 

29 


THE    WOLF 

"Because—" 

"She  did  not  wantonly  go  with  him  as  his 
mistress?" 

"No,"  said  the  priest,  swiftly. 

"Then  what — what  has  happened?  Where  is 
Annette  now?"  demanded  Beaubien.  "No  mat- 
ter what  her  sin  has  been,  there  is  the  promise 
I  made  to  my  dying  father.  There  is,  more- 
over, a  duty  that  I  owe  her  now,  for  God  knows, 
if  ever  this  poor  child  needed  a  brother  to  shield 
and  protect  her,  it  is  now — now!" 

Jules  had  arisen.  The  priest  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  gently  forcing  him  back  into  his 
chair. 

But  Baptiste  Le  Grand  got  up. 

"Jules  Beaubien,  you  have  come  too  late  to 
help  her — just  as  I  came  too  late  to  help  her. 
Annette — Annette — she  is  dead." 

Jules  stared.    Father  Paul  would  have  spoken 
but  Baptiste  cried  hoarsely: 
30 


THE     WOLF 

"Non — non — I  tell.  I  tell  you,  her  brother, 
how  she  died!  You  listen!  He  leave  her.  He 
is  gone  many  months.  She  hear  nothing.  Then 
she  know  that  all  he  has  said  have  been  lies; 
then  she  know  that  he  will  never  come  back. 
Then  she  know  that  before  all — everybody — 
she  is  in  shame!  And  then  she  go — she  go!" 
Baptiste's  rough  voice  had  broken  and  the  end 
came  in  a  sob — "She  go  an'  she  die — she  die  an'- 
Jules  Beaubien,  the  wolves — the  wolves — they 
eat  her  up!" 

"Eaten  by  wolves!"  cried  Beaubien.    "God! 
Father  Paul,  is  this  true?  " 

The  priest  was  silent. 

For  indeed  it  was  true.  The  priest  told 
slowly  of  the  frightful  happening.  The  girl  had 
run  away  from  her  foster  parents.  She  had  been 
found  wandering  again  and  again  in  the  wilder- 
ness and  in  the  snow.  Trappers  brought  her  to 
their  huts,  and  they  that  had  women  folk  gave 
31 


THE     WOLF 

her  to  their  care.  Sometimes  she  was  delirious; 
sometimes  she  was  quiet,  like  a  little  scared 
child.  In  her  delirium  a  part  of  her  story  had 
become  known.  Yet  she  had  never  whispered 
the  name  of  the  man. 

On  the  wildest  night  of  the  winter  she  had 
disappeared  from  the  house  that  had  sheltered 
her.  A  blizzard  roared  and  screamed  along  the 
mountain  sides  and  piled  the  snow  impassably 
in  the  valley.  The  searching  parties  had  come 
home  without  a  trace  of  her.  But  there,  as  she 
lay  in  the  snow,  the  wolves  had  found  her — found 
her  and  her  little  baby  in  her  arms — or  rather 
found  something  that  resembled  her  and  her 
little  child.  The  rest  was  too  horrible  to  tell. 

When  Baptiste  Le  Grand  left  the  home  of 
Father  Paul  to  seek  his  own  cabin  that  night, 
Jules  Beaubien  was  with  him.  Over  the  rough 
pine  table  they  discussed  again  the  story  of 
Annette.  And  the  handsome  face  of  Jules 
82 


THE     WOLF 

Beaubien  took  on  a  ghastly  tinge  of  color  beneath 
its  bronze;  and  staring  straight  into  the  eyes  of 
Baptiste  Le  Grand,  he  said  with  an  intensity 
that  drew  back  his  upper  lip  and  bared  his 
strong  white  teeth: 

"You,  my  friend,  who  loved  her  like  an 
honorable  man,  and  I,  my  friend,  her  brother — 
we  who  were  not  here  to  protect  her — we, 
Ba'tiste  Le  Grand  and  Jules  Beaubien — we  must 
hunt  and  hunt  until  we  find  this  man,  and  when 
we  find  him— 

More  words  were  idle.  Each  man  could  read 
the  declaration  in  the  other  man's  eyes. 

Clumsily  the  squat,  strong  Le  Grand  opened 
the  neck  of  his  leather  jacket  and  the  collar  of 
his  woollen  shirt.  He  detached  a  silver  crucifix 
from  the  chain  around  his  neck.  Slowly,  solemnly, 
he  kissed  the  shining  symbol.  And  then  he 
held  it  out.  Jules  took  it,  and  as  solemnly  and 
reverentially  he  placed  his  lips  upon  it. 
33 


CHAPTER  III 

HILDA 

Jules  Beaubien  and  Baptiste  Le  Grand  had 
been  hunting  the  grim  hunt  for  two  years.  The 
comradeship  between  the  young  wealthy  Beau- 
bien and  the  tough,  rough  man  of  the  woods  had 
become  almost  as  master  and  dog. 

Baptiste  knew  that  if  they  were  to  find  the 
man  it  would  be  the  keen  wit  of  Jules  that  would 
discover  him.  And  Jules  he  respected  also  as 
being  as  good  a  woodsman  as  himself.  Jules' 
early  boyhood  had  been  in  the  great  forests. 
Later  his  wealthy  lumberman  father  had  sent 
him  to  the  fine  college  of  the  Jesuits  in  Montreal, 
and  Jules  had — why,  he  had  been  in  Montreal, 
in  Toronto,  and  in  Quebec.  He  was  a  man  of 
the  world — a  great  man  in  the  eyes  of  Baptiste 
Le  Grand. 

34 


THE    WOLF 

It  gratified  Baptiste  for  Jules  to  tell  him  again 
and  again  that  after  all  he  loved  the  woods  best; 
that  the  strong,  sweet  breath  of  the  pines  was 
after  all  the  best  breath  of  life;  that  there  were 
no  more  imposing  cathedrals  built  to  God  than 
the  huge  mountains  of  God's  own  creation;  that 
a  man's  soul  was  the  cleaner  for  the  life  in  the 
big  silent  places  of  the  world — places  like  these 
forests  where  they  roamed  and  hunted — always 
hunted — for  the  man  they  meant  to  kill. 

Such  is  the  crazy-quilt  pattern  of  our  lives, 
that  Jules,  in  wanderings  directed  by  hatred, 
found  love.  He  himself  scarcely  realized  that, 
but  it  was  true. 

In  the  Indian  summer,  when  their  search  was 
a  year  old,  Jules  and  Baptiste  had  heard  that 
often  parties  of  engineers,  seeking  to  solve  the 
great  railway  problems  of  the  Northwest,  quar- 
tered themselves  at  the  house  of  one  Andrew 
McTavish. 

35 


THE    WOLF 

The  man  they  hunted — he  was  an  engineer. 

Baptiste  had  not  seen  him.    Baptiste  had  been 

• 

deep  in  the  woods,  toiling  for  the  Hudson  Bay 
Company.  He,  coming  out  of  the  woodlands, 
had,  like  Jules  coming  out  of  the  city,  both  in 
quest  of  Annette,  found  only  the  soiled  tale  of  her 
memory  and  the  ghastly  news  of  her  wild  death. 

That  year  they  found  no  party  of  engineers 
at  McTavish's  house.  But  there  Jules  found 
Hilda.  She  had  great  strands  of  shining  golden 
hair  in  contrast  to  his  crisp,  black  curls;  she  had 
great  blue  eyes  in  contrast  to  his  eloquent,  ex- 
pressive brown  eyes.  And  her  eyes  wore  an 
expression  that  struck  swiftly  into  the  heart 
of  Beaubien — a  startled,  hurt  expression  that 
never  went  out  of  them. 

One  understood  this  look  in  her  eyes  when  one 
came  to  know  the  fanatical  McTavish,  her 
father. 

He  was  huge,  gaunt,  the  spare  figure  somewhat 
36 


THE    WOLF 

bent  by  the  passing  of  seventy  years.  But  still 
he  was  a  rugged  man.  There  was  enormous 
power  yet  in  the  big  hands  that  had  fought  a 
fortune  out  of  the  forest — an  endless  battle  with 
the  giant  trees. 

His  hair  that  had  been  sandy  was  yellowish 
white.  There  was  a  shock  of  it  on  his  head; 
thick  patches  of  it  bristled  over  his  eyes;  a  huge 
beard  hung  from  his  face. 

Hilda's  golden  hair,  her  big  blue  eyes,  her  fair 
skin,  her  slender  form  were  hateful  to  old  Mc- 
Tavish .  Jules  found  that  out.  Indeed ,  McTavish 
made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  saw  in  the  girl 
but  a  reproduction  of  the  mother — the  woman 
whom  he  had  married,  who  had  dwelt  and  suf- 
fered with  his  harshness  until  one  summer  an 
itinerant  French  trader  had  brought  something 
into  her  life  that  she  had  never  known,  a  happiness 
that  transported  her,  a  happiness  that  made  her 
reckless  with  the  hope  of  retaining  it. 
37 


THE    WOLF 

She  had  fled  from  McTavish.  She  had  left 
Hilda. 

If  men's  minds  brood,  the  vast,  silent  places 
are  not  good.  McTavish  had  come  to  such  a 
place,  swearing  as  far  as  in  his  power  to  keep  his 
child  from  the  eyes  of  men.  Out  of  the  breedings 
came  a  certainty  in  his  mind  that  all  women  were 
evil.  He  read  his  Bible  with  interpretations  that 
fitted  his  mania. 

Hilda  had  to  bear  the  brunt  of  all  this  bitter- 
ness. From  the  days  when  she  could  lisp  she 
remembered  her  father's  own  thick  Scotch  speech 
harshly  telling  her  that  her  soul  was  like  the  soul 
of  her  mother — black,  black,  black! 

Jules  and  the  faithful  Baptiste  had  gone  away, 
Jules  thinking  that  it  was  only  pity  that  made 
him  remember  so  much  of  the  blue-eyed  Hilda. 
But  in  the  long  winter  and  the  sweet  spring,  the 
truth  got  into  him.  He  loved  Hilda.  But  there 
was  Annette — Annette  to  be  revenged. 
38 


THE    WOLF 

Circumstances  worked  the  solution.  The  party 
of  engineers,  in  which  might  be  the  man  that  he 
and  Baptiste  sought,  that  they  had  trailed 
through  this  second  summer  of  their  hunt,  had 
quartered  themselves  at  the  lonely  house  of  Me- 
Tavish.  So  Jules  and  the  faithful  Baptiste  had 
come  once  more  under  the  roof  of  the  queer, 
cruel  Scot. 

It  was  not  strange,  with  little  Annette  always 
in  the  thoughts  of  dull,  faithful  Baptiste  Le  Grand, 
that  half  unconsciously  he  had  begun  to  speak  of 
her  to  McTavish. 

The  red  sun  was  half  hidden  by  the  giant  pines, 
a  brook  gurgled  softly  behind  the  jagged  rocks 
that  bound  the  clearing  in  which  the  Scot's  rough 
log  house  stood.  McTavish  sat  in  a  huge  chair, 
his  long,  gaunt  legs  crossed.  He  puffed  at  his 
pipe  jerkily.  His  little  blue  eyes  shot  scorn  at 
Baptiste. 

The  Frenchman's  pipe  had  been  laid  aside  on 


THE    WOLF 

the  rustic  seat  built  around  the  trunk  of  a  huge 
pine.  Baptiste  had  his  back  against  the  tree 
trunk.  His  heavy  hairy  hand  tugged  thought- 
fully at  his  rough  brown  beard. 

"An'  ye  say  she  deed,  mon?"  asked  McTavish. 
"Went  out  in  the  snow  and  froze  to  death,  eh? 
An'  ye  loved  her?" 

With  an  affirmative  nod  Baptiste  said : 

"Oui — er,  how  you  say,  yes." 

"An'  I  suppose  had  she  lived  ye'd  a'taken  her 
for  wife?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  her  a  half-breed  and  havin'  a  bairn  of 
another  man?  " 

"Yes — yes.    I  lofe  her.    M'sieur  M'Taveesh." 

• 

The  Scot  grunted. 

"Mon,  ye  hae  nae  knowledge  o'  weemen." 
"I  don't  onnerstan'." 

McTavish  waved  his  hand  as  a  man  who  could 
explain  but  saw  no  occasion  to  take  the  trouble. 

40 


THE     WOLF 

"Ye  say  her  name  was  what — Annette? 
H'm!  Did  she  love  ye?" 

Le  Grand  stared. 

"I  teenk  so,"  he  said. 

"Ye're  a  fool,"  flared  the  Scot.  "Ye're  a 
muckle  sight  better  off  wi'out  her.  It's  a  guid 
thing  she's  gone — the  wanton." 

Baptiste  hardly  understood  more  than  the 
tone.  But  he  got  up  suddenly  and  drew  nearer 
McTavish. 

"I  no  mak  fight  with  you — not  now.  Some- 
time mabbe  I  come  back  and  I  ask  you  to  tak 
back  what  you  say.  You  know,  Annette,  she  is 
the  half  sistaire  of  Jules  Beaubien.  Two  moth- 
aire — one  f  athaire — you  onnerstan'  ?" 

"Ye  mean,  mon,  that  Jules'  faither  was  the 
mon  who  was  the  faither  to  this  half- 
breed?" 

"Yes.  Sometime  this  man,  fathaire  of  Jules, 
he  trade  in  the  Nipissing  country.  He  live  in 
41 


THE    WOLF 

Montreal.  His  wife  too.  Sometime  in  the  Nip- 
issing  country  he  meet  one  ver'  fine  0  jib  way 
squaw,  and  sometime,  mabbe,  he  say  to  squaw, 
'I  make  you  one  ver'  fine,  gran'  lady.  You  be 
ma  wife.'  The  squaw  she  lofe  him.  She  no 
know  of  dat  othaire  wife  in  Montreal. 

"And  sometime  there  is  one  petite  fille — one 
leet'  girl — and  jus'  the  same  time  the  leet'  girl 
she  opens  the  eyes,  the  squaw  she  die.  And  this 
leet'  girl,  some  one  tak  her  home  and  her  fath- 
aire  come  once  ever'  leet'  while,  and  he  name 
her  Annette.  Ah,  M'sieur  McTaveesh — dees 
Annette  she  was  so  sweet,  so  good." 

"Bah,  ye  idiot!  Nae  weemen  are  guid.  Well, 
well?  Goon." 

"  I  lofe  her.  I  want  her  for  ma  wife.  I  leave 
to  go  to  the  North  to  do  the  work  for  the  Hudson 
Bay  Compagnie.  I  come  back.  I  look  for 
Annette.  She  no  is  there.  Annette  she  is— 
how  you  say,  M'sieur  McTaveesh?" 
42 


THE    WOLF 

"Deed?" 

"Yes— dead." 

"  We  all  got  to  dee,"  grunted  McTavish.  "  It's 
sma'  use  wastin'  yer  life  whinin'  over  weemen. 
Tis  far  better,  Ba'tiste,  that  a  man  worry  his 
soul  over  money.  Tis  more  faithfu'." 

"No,  no!"  cried  Baptiste,  and  new  lights  came 
up  into  his  eyes.  "You — leesen.  While  I  am 
away  in  the  North,  Annette  she  is  meeting  one 
American.  I  dunno  his  name  or  where  he  came. 
Annette  she  lofe  him.  He  say  to  her,  'Annette, 
you  be  ma  wife.  I  take  you  to  ma  country.' 
And  she  believe.  She  say,  'C'est  bien,'  and  he 
say,  'Dere  is  priests  here/  and  he" 

"Ba-ah,  mon,"  exclaimed  the  Scot,  furiously. 
"  I  know  yer  story.  There  was  nae  priest.  Nor  did 
she  want  'em.  She  enjoyed  herself  wi'  this  mon 
and  he  left  her,  and  there  was  a  child.  And  be- 
cause people  wouldn't  hae  her  aroun',  which 
was  right,  she  went  wanderin'  and  got  lost  in  the 
43 


THE    WOLF 

cold  and  was  deed.  Ba-ah!  Ba'tiste,  ye're  a 
fool.  Weemen  are  the  deevil.  All  o'  thim  hae 
black  hearts.  I've  had  a  woman  myseP,  mon. 
I  ken  what  I  say." 

It  was  Baptiste  who  turned  scornful. 

"You  mak  one  gran'  mistake.  Jules  he  come 
to  Nipissing  to  find  his  sistaire.  He  find  only 
me.  I  tell  him:  'She  is  dead.'  The  hearts  of 
Jules  and  Ba'tiste  grow  cold — ver*  cold — and 
M'sieur  M'Taveesh,  sometime  Jules  and  Ba'tiste 
fin*  dees  man.  Sometime  mabbe  they  keel  him. 
Eh?  Onnerstan'?" 

"I  tell  ye,  ye're  a  fool  wastin'  yer  time  chasm' 
some  man.  'Twas  the  weeman's  wish  and  al- 
ways hae  been.  They're  all  o'  the  same  color." 

It  softened  McTavish's  mind  none  to  observe, 
at  this  moment  of  his  talk  with  Baptiste,  his  own 
daughter  as  she  appeared  walking  out  of  the  door- 
way, tin  pail  in  hand,  making  her  way  to  the 
spring.  Baptiste  lumbered  toward  her  with  a 
44 


THE    WOLF 

view  to   carrying  the  pail.    McTavish's   voice 
came  harshly: 

"Ba'tiste,  I  gie  ye  the  freedom  o'  my  house. 
Leave  my  daughter  alone.  Tis  her  business  to 
haul  the  water.  Weemen  are  worth  nothin'  but 
work." 

The  girl  shrank  back,  the  startled,  frightened 
look  that  even  the  dull  Baptiste  had  noticed, 
understood  and  pitied,  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"Hilda,"  said  the  Scot  roughly. 

"Yes,  father." 

"What  are  ye  snivellin'  aboot?  Gang  awa* 
to  yer  work.  Remember  ye're  my  daughter  and 
the  mither  before  ye  was  worthless.  Do  yer  work 
cheerfully  and  trust  yer  soul  to  God.  Gang  awa' !" 

"Hey,  M'sieur  McTaveesh — you  one  bad  man," 
said  Baptiste,  with  a  curious  hissing  softness. 

"And  ye're  a  French  fool,  full  o'  rainbows  and 
sentiments.    I  tell  ye  the  girl's  worthless.    So 
was  her  mither  before  her." 
45 


THE    WOLF 

"Hey,  you,  M'sieur  McTaveesh,"  said  Baptiste, 
still  softly.  "Sometime,  mabbe,  Mam'selle  Hilda 
she  tak  ze  pail  for  wataire,  and  sometime  mabbe 
Jules  Beaubien  he  go  to  tak  the  pail  from  her  and 
you  say  'Non.'  Sometime  mabbe  you  do  that, 
Jules  Beaubien,  he  feex  you." 

"A  Frenchman  fix  me!"  roared  the  gaunt  old 
Scotchman.  "Ye  make  me  laugh."  He  leaned 
back  in  his  big  chair.  "Ye  were  speakin' 
o'  Annette.  An'  ye  saw  Hilda.  That  was 
her  mither's  name — the  name  o'  the  wan- 
ton. I  married  her  in  Halifax.  She  was 
a  Swede.  She  had  nae  money  and  nae  friends, 
and  I  married  her  to  take  her  off  the  streets.  I 
didna  love  her.  There's  nae  such  thing  as 
love  in  a  mon  that's  a  mon.  But  I  was 
a  guid  mon  to  her  and  the  least  she 
could  hae  done  would  hae  been  to  gie 
me  a  son.  Did  she?  Nae.  The  towhead 
there  who  had  the  pail  was  my  Christmas 
46 


THE    WOLF 

present.  And  still  I  was  guid  to  her,  and 
what  did  she  do?  Fell  in  love  wi'  a  French- 
man and  ran  awa',  leavin'  me  that  to  take 
care  o'." 

"McTaveesh,  you  are  one  bad  man." 

"Bad?  Ye're  a  fool,  like  all  Frenchmen. 
What  did  I  do  with  Hilda  that  was  bad?  She 
has  her  mither's  curse — all  weemen  hae  it — and 
I  bring  her  here  away  from  men  and  teach  her 
to  be  humble  and  obedient  accordin'  to  the  law 
o'  God,  and  men.  Nae  mon  can  speak  tae  her 
except  French-Canadians,  and  they're  only  half 
mon,  thank  God,  and  not  apologizing  to  ye  for 
the  remark." 

Humbly  Hilda  returned  toward  the  house,  bear- 
ing the  dripping  pail. 

"Look  at  her.     Ye  can  see  the  sin  o*  her 

mither  in  her  face!" 

An  insane  light  came  into  McTavish's  little 
gray  eyes  as  he  spoke,  and  there  was  an  uncanny 

47 


THE    WOLF 

ring  in  his  voice.    The  girl  heard.    She  recoiled 
under  the  brutal  cry. 

Baptiste  was  again  on  his  feet,  but  with  a 
furious  gesture  the  Scot  waved  him  back.  Bap- 
tiste stared  after  the  girl  as  she  disappeared.  The 
woodsman  looked  curiously  at  the  strange 
father. 

"Sometime,  M'sieur  McTaveesh,"  he  said, 
"mabbe  Mam'selle  Hilda,  she  lofe  a  good  man. 
Sometime,  mabbe,  some  good  man  lofe  Mam'- 
selle Hilda.  What  you  do  den?" 

"He'll  marry  her  by  the  law  o*  God  an*  the 
Presbyterian  Church  or  I'll  wring  her  neck,"  half 
shouted  the  fanatic. 

"M'Taveesh,  you  are  one  big,  bad  fathairc, 
eh?" 

"Ye're  a  French  fool." 

Up  came  Baptiste's  shoulders.    He  smiled. 

"Au  revoir.  I  go  fin'  ma  fren'  Jules  Beau- 
bien." 

48 


THE    WOLF 

McTavish  chuckled. 

"Right  ye  are,  mon — and  bring  him  back.  He 
makes  laugh  an*  few  do.  I  dinna  ken  any  mon 
so  full  o'  humor  as  Jules,  although  he  is  French." 

The  cracking  twigs  sounded  fainter  as  Baptiste 
disappeared. 


49 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  BAD  WOMAN 

Craft  and  meditation  came  into  old  McTav- 
ish's  eyes  as  he  smoked  for  awhile  in  silence. 

Then  he  looked  up  and  called  roughly: 

"Hilda!" 

The  girl,  with  her  frightened  stare,  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"Come  here!  Sit  down,"  he  said,  and  when 
she  had  walked  over  and  taken  a  place  at  his  feet, 
he  looked  her  over  very  deliberately  as  if  by  an 
unbidden  impulse.  "  Tis  a  shame,  girl,  ye  hae 
yellow  hair,"  he  continued,  but  there  was  very 
little  softening  in  his  voice.  "Yer  mither  had 
it  and  she  was  nae  good." 

"Yes,  father,"  said  the  girl  blankly. 

"This  engineer,  MacDonald,  that  we  hae  wi' 
us  now,  and  that — that" — McTavish  spat — "that 
50 


THE    WOLF 

young — young   Ferguson.     Hae  ye  talked  to 
thim?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Did  ye  ask  thim  what  I  told  ye  to?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"  Yes,  father — yes,  father ! "  exploded  McTavish. 
"Hae  ye  any  ither  words  in  yer  empty  head? 
Ye  might  know  ye're  a   Swede — the  Scotch 
talk!" 

"What  shall  I  say?"  asked  the  bewildered 
daughter. 

"Ach,  ye  fool,"  stormed  the  parent.  "If  I 
told  ye  what  to  say,  I'd  hae  nae  business  askin' 
ye.  Don't  slink  away  like  that!  Dinna  be 
lookin'  as  if  I  meant  to  eat  ye  up!  God  knows 
ye're  little  eno',  but  ye're  mine  and  I'll  do  me 
duty  to  me  ain.  But  curse  the  day  ye  got  the 
yellow  hair.  Now  tell  me  what  MacDonald  and 
the  young  jackanapes  Ferguson  said,  if  ye  can 
find  words  wi'  yer  Scandinavian  tongue." 
51 


THE    WOLF 

"I  didn't  find  out  a  great  deal  from  Mr.  Mac- 
Donald,"  said  the  girl,  "or  from  Mr.  Ferguson 
either,  but  Jules  told  me " 

"I  dinna  care  what  Jules  told  ye.  Er — well, 
what  did  Jules  say?  " 

"Well,  Jules  said  Mr.  MacDonald  was  a  rail- 
road engineer  and  Mr.  Ferguson  worked  for 
him." 

"Worked  fer  him?  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I 
hadna  seen  him  work  fer  anybody  sin'  he's  been 
here.  Well — go  on." 

Under  this  encouragement  the  girl  drew  her 
golden  head  nearer  her  father's  knee. 

"Jules  said  that  Mr.  MacDonald  was  up  here  to 
find  a  way  to  build  a  railroad  through  the  Abbitti 
country.  He  said  that  the  Americans  were  going 
to  build  it  and  that  Mr.  MacDonald  was  a  great 
man." 

Hilda  gazed  up,  frightened  again.    Her  father 
had  uttered  a  rude  burst  of  laughter. 
52 


THE     WOLF 

"Build  a  railroad  through  the  Abbitti 'coun- 
try?" he  cried. 

"Yes,  father.  And  Jules  said  that  if  they  did 
build  it  they  would  haul  to  Montreal  the  yearly 
harvest." 

"O'  what— ice?"  scoffed  McTavish. 

"Jules  said  wheat." 

"Jules  must  hae  been  drunk.  Well,  go  on. 
Tell  me  aboot  it." 

"I  asked  Mr.  MacDonald,  and  he  was  very  nice 
to  me." 

"  He  was?  That's  yer  yellow  hair  again.  Well, 
speak  up,  Hilda!  Tell  me  aboot  it — the  whole 
'o  it." 

The  girl  drew  nearer.  She  was  always  making 
these  little  approaches  to  the  harsh,  stern  old 
man,  only  to  find  herself  suddenly  rebuffed.  But 
now,  as  she  talked,  she  almost  seemed  to  forget 
his  awesome  presence. 

"Mr.  MacDonald  didn't  tell  me  much  about 
53 


THE    WOLF 

his  business  here,  but,  father" — the  girl's  voice 
rose — "he  told  me  all  about  his  country,  and  the 
buildings,  and  the  ladies,  and  the  millions  of 
people.  And  he  showed  me  some  pictures  of 
trains  that  go  on  one  of  his  railroads,  and  a  book 
about  the  theatre,  with  pictures  of  all  the  beauti- 
ful actresses,  and  I  almost  forgot  to  ask  about  his 
business.  He  was  so  gentle  and  kind  and  so — 

"Take  care,  girl,"  said  the  Scot  bitterly ;  "take 
care  ye  dinna  follow  the  path  o'  yer  wicked 
mither  an'  lure  Mr.  MacDonald  to  his  destruction. 
He's  a  fine  mon,  and  dinna  ye  be  interferin'  wi' 
his  business  wi'  yer  yellow  hair." 

McTavish  arose,  and  the  girl  got  up,  too.  He 
pushed  her  rudely. 

"Into  the  house  wi'  ye!"  he  said  sharply,  and 
pray  God  to  forgi'  ye  for  not  bein'  Scotch." 

He  walked  about,  ruminating  in  his  unimagi- 
native mind  this  vast  and  seemingly  impossible 
railroad  scheme  of  which  he  had  just  heard.  The 

54 


THE    WOLF 

sounds  of  his  daughter  at  her  work  inside  drew 
his  thoughts  back  to  her  for  an  instant. 

"I'm  thinking"  he  muttered,  "that  the  same 
God  was  very  careless  when  he  turned  out 
Swedes." 

He  resumed  his  stroll. 

A  youth  came  up  the  rocky  path  unobserved. 
He  was  snub-nosed,  smiling,  presenting  the 
countenance  of  a  mischievous  urchin,  as  he 
looked  over  the  slowly  moving,  hulking  figure  of 
McTavish. 

His  boyish  features  were  surmounted  by  a  big 
sombrero.  His  jacket  was  of  khaki,  his  trousers 
of  corduroy.  His  feet  were  protected  by  heavy- 
soled  shoes  with  long-laced  uppers.  There  was 
a  jauntiness  to  the  flare  of  his  blue  flannel  collar 
and  the  careless  knotting  of  the  scarf. 

This  was  young  Ferguson.    And  by  the  way  of 
relieving  the  monotony  of  the  woodland  life,  the 
sullen  McTavish  was  young  Ferguson's  game. 
55 


THE    WOLF 

"Hello,  Santa  Glaus,"  he  called  cheerily,  as  he 
approached. 

McTavish  wheeled. 

"Santa  Glaus,"  he  snarled.  "Away  wi' 
ye." 

"Too  near  dinner  time,"  replied  Ferguson,  by 
way  of  apology. 

"Ye  young  jackanapes !  Ye're  much  too  free 
wi'  yer  tongue." 

Ferguson  took  a  seat  against  the  tree. 

"Well,  old  Ironsides,"  he  said  cordially. 

"Ironsides?"  demanded  McTavish. 

"Excuse  me,  Sir  Walter  Scott,"  pursued  Fer- 
guson. 

"Ye're  an  impudent  rascal,"  snorted  the  Scot. 

"Oh,  all  right,  Robert  Bruce.  If  you  don't  get 
mad,  I'll  sing  'Annie  Laurie'  for  you.  How'll 
that  suit  you?" 

"Ye  hae  nae  respect  for  yer  elders,"  cried 
McTavish,  shaking  his  horny  fist  near  Ferguson's 
56 


THE    WOLF 

face,  "an'  if  ye  dinna  treat  me  better,  I'll  be 
chastisin'  ye." 

"If  you  do,"  said  Ferguson,  shaking  his  finger 
at  the  big  man  as  if  he  had  been  a  naughty  child, 
"if  you  do  that,  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie,  I'll  make 
you  get  a  hair  cut." 

"Ye  brat!    Ye're  incorrigible." 

"Wrong  again.  I'm  in  Canada,"  smiled  Fer- 
guson. 

"Ba-ah!"  roared  the  Scot. 

"Two  ba-ahs,"  replied  Ferguson. 

"I'll  be  tellin'  Mr.  MacDonald  on  ye  to  make 
ye  behave,"  muttered  McTavish,  retreating  into 
the  house. 

"Tattle-tale!  Tattle-tale!"  called  Ferguson 
after  him. 

The  jackanapes  leaned  against  a  tree  and 
groaned. 

"An  hour  before  grub  time,  and  I'm  as  hollow 
as  a  barrel.  Oh,  you,  Hilda!"  he  cried  cordially, 
57 


THE    WOLF 

at  sight  of  the  girl's  gorgeously  golden-haired  head 
in  the  doorway;  "what's  the  one  best  bet  for 
dinner?  No,  don't  tell  me.  I've  got  it — pork 
and  beans  to  win,  biscuits  for  place,  and  coffee  to 
show." 

"Why,  what  does  all  that  mean,  Mr.  Ferguson?" 
smiled  the  girl. 

The  jackanapes  looked  tragic. 

"Hilda,  that  cost  me  so  much  to  learn  that  I 
won't  give  it  up  for  nothing." 

"You're  a  funny  man,"  laughed  the  girl. 

"Ain't  I?"  agreed  Ferguson  cheerfully, with  a 
comical  screw  of  his  urchin's  face.  "I've  just 
been  giving  that  amiable  father  of  yours  some  of 
my  comedy,  and  he's  gone  off  into  the  woods  to 
bite  a  tree  in  two.  He's  the  happiest  man  I  ever 
saw,  and  I  guess  that's  what  makes  him  so  sore. 
Every  time  he  suspects  he's  happy  he  gets  mad." 

Hilda  was  a  bit  confused  at  the  rattle  of 
raillery  that  came  from  the  young  fellow. 
58 


THE    WOLF 

"Father,"  she  said  seriously,  "is  very  harsh." 

"Harsh?  Oh,  nothing  like  that.  Nix.  Why, 
say,  Hilda,  that  dad  of  yours  is  hiding  behind  that 
white  beard  and  throwing  an  awful  bluff.  Why 
don't  you  call  him?" 

"Call  him?"  queried  the  girl,  puzzled  at  the 
slang  phrase. 

"Yes,  call  him,"  said  young  Ferguson,  warmly. 
"I  notice  the  way  he  treats  you,  and  while  it's 
none  of  my  affair,  I  don't  think  it's  a  square 
deal." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  answered  the 
woodland  girl  with  a  slow  shake  of  her  gloriously 
mantled  head. 

"Well,  well;  I  suppose  not.  What  I  mean  is 
that  you  are  too  nice  a  girl  to  have  anybody  try- 
ing to  whip  you  ail  the  while." 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Ferguson,"  said  Hilda  earnestly, 
"he's  never  struck  me." 

"Not  in  the  face,  maybe,  but  I  guess  in  the 
59 


THE     WOLF 

heart,  all  right,"  said  the  boy.  "Say,  tell  me 
about  yourself.  It  doesn't  seem  exactly  right 
that  you  are  the  daughter  of  that  old  blunder- 
buss." 

Hilda  looked  at  him  in  frightened  fashion. 

"Oh,  but  I  am.  You  know  I  am,"  she  pro- 
tested. 

"Sure,  sure,"  Ferguson  hastened  to  say;  "but 
I  mean  he  makes  it  altogether  too  rough.  You 
know,  since  I've  been  up  here  fussing  around  with 
MacDonald,  I  couldn't  help  hearing  things,  and 
Jules  has  told  me  a  lot." 

"You  like  Jules?"  demanded  the  girl  sud- 
denly. 

"Well,  I  should  think  I  did,"  came  the  en- 
thusiastic reply.  "He's  a  great  fellow.  I  ain't 
got  any  prejudice  against  these  Frenchmen,  and 
Jules  can  run  for  my  money." 

"And  what,"  asked  Hilda  anxiously,  "did 
Jules  tell  you?" 

60 


THE    WOLF 

Ferguson  drew  very  near  her. 

"Oh,  a  lot,  and  nothing  much.  Hilda,  do— 
you  like  me?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  frankly. 

"That's  good!  Few  girls  do.  But  he  told 
me — well,  if  you'll  stand  for  this,  I'll  tell  you. 
Jules  told  me  about — about  your  mother — how 
she  came  over  here  alone  without  a  red  cent  in 
her  bankroll  and  landed  in  Halifax — didn't  even 
know  how  to  speak  English;  how  she  was  pretty, 
just  like  you  are,  and  how  this  old  fellow  married 
her  and  treated  her  awful  rough,  and  how  you 
came  into  the  world  looking  just  like  her,  and 
how  mad  it  made  the  old  man.  And  then  how 
he  raised  the  devil  with  her  until  she  ran  away 
and  died  and  left  you  with  the  old  man  all  alone, 
and  how  he  came  into  the  woods  and  he  brought 
you  up,  treating  you  all  to  the  bad,  keeping  you 
away  from  men  and  always  telling  you  about 
your  mother." 

61 


THE    WOLF 

The  boy  took  her  hand  in  a  frank,  brotherly 
fashion. 

"Say,  Hilda,  I  don't  stack  up  very  strong  in 
thk  world,  and  maybe  somewhere  in  my  system 
there's  a  streak  of  yellow;  but  I'd  go  through  a 
lot  for  you;  and  so  would  Jules.  Jules,  Hilda,  is 
a  good  man.  And,  take  it  from  me,  there  ain't 
many." 

The  touch  of  young  Ferguson's  hand  gave  the 
girl  courage  to  utter  the  question  that  was 
trembling  on  her  lips. 

"Do  you  think  my  mother  was  such  a  bad 
woman,  Mr.  Ferguson?" 

"Not  on  your  life!"  cried  the  boy.  "Hilda 
some  folks  go  to  the  bad  because  they  kind  of 
like  that  sort  of  thing,  and  some  go  because  they're 
driven,  just  like  you  drive  your  dogs  in  the  winter 
time.  But  I  guess  those  who  are  driven  have  an 
even  chance  in  heaven  with  those  who  are  not." 

Hilda  uttered  a  little  sob  of  happiness. 
62 


THE    WOLF 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  she  whispered. 
"You  are  the  first  human  being  outside  of  Jules 
who  ever  told  me  that.  And  I  love  my  mother 
and  her  memory,"  concluded  the  girl,  with  in- 
finite tenderness. 

"Why— why"— Ferguson  was  both  abashed 
and  angry  to  find  his  throat  clogged.  "Sure 
you  do.  Well,  well,  Hilda — say,"  he  went  on, 
resuming  his  characteristic  grinning  demeanor, 
"will  grub  be  ready  soon?  I'm  awful  strong 
for  that  sort  of  business." 

"Pretty  soon,"  she  laughed  back  at  him,  "and 
you've  been  so  nice  that  I'm  going  to  do  my  very 
best." 

"Me  to  the  wash  up  and  haircomb  things,  and 
I'll  try  to  believe  I'm  in  the  United  States." 

Hilda  watched  him  enter  the  house,  smiling 
prettily  at  the  good-natured  youngster. 

And  then  she  turned  suddenly  and  peered  past 
the  rocks  and  down  into  the  valley  through  the 
63 


THE    WOLF 

big  pines.  A  voice  that  she  knew  was  humming 
the  snatch  of  a  merry  song,  and  a  firm,  quick 
footfall  sounded  on  the  soft  turf  of  the  pathway 
leading  to  the  house.  MacDonald,  the  wonder- 
ful man — the  man  who  had  set  her  dreaming  of 
the  great  cities — MacDonald  was  approaching. 


64 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  WOLF 

MACDONALD  appeared  in  the  clearing,  waving 
his  hand  to  the  girl  and  calling  her  name.  She 
watched  him  intently  as  he  approached.  There 
was  that  in  her  gaze  and  attitude  that  was  sug- 
gestive of  a  fascinated  bird. 

The  chief  engineer  was  a  stalwart  man,  and  a 
splendid  combination  of  physical  and  mental 
strength  was  to  be  quickly  read  in  his  compact 
yet  supple  and  broad-shouldered  body,  in  his 
large,  clearly  chiselled  features,  and  the  splendid 
width  and  height  of  the  forehead  that  was  fully 
displayed,  because  he  had  thrown  back  his 
broad-brimmed  hat  as  he  walked  with  a  big,  free 
stride — the  stride  of  a  man  all  confidence  and 
energy. 

Success  was  written  in  the  poise  of  his  head, 
65 


THE    WOLF 

and  there  was  magnetism  in  his  fine  eyes.  In  only 
one  feature  did  the  face  fail  of  nobility,  and  that 
was  his  mouth.  Its  corners  had  sinister  lines. 
Sensuality  and  cruelty  were  marked  there  with 
a  harsh  certainty. 

But  the  innocent,  golden-haired  girl  saw  only 
the  attractiveness  of  the  man.  Intuition  would 
have  told  her  that  he  was  a  man  among  men, 
even  if  Jules  had  not  told  her  that  this  Mac- 
Donald  was  a  creature  of  genius,  a  worker  of 
marvels  in  engineering;  a  man  who  made  slaves 
of  the  very  mountains  and  valleys  that  stood 
seemingly  an  impassable  barrier  in  the  way  of 
the  railroads  and  the  progress  that  came  swiftly 
in  the  wake  of  the  laying  of  shining  steel  rails. 

And  he  was  a  man  to  whom  the  world  was  an 
open  book — a  man  who  knew  the  effete  places 
and  the  wild  places  of  the  earth  equally  well. 
All  that  the  world  had  to  show  he  had  seen. 

He  was  no  longer  young.  Gray  hair  was 
66 


THE    WOLF 

mixed  with  his  black  hair.  Deep  lines  of  thought 
were  marked  on  his  brow.  But  his  forty  years 
of  life,  with  all  his  big  efforts,  all  its  dissipations, 
had  not  robbed  him  of  vigor,  had  not  made  his 
body  flabby  or  his  nerves  weak.  He  was  virile, 
magnetic,  superior. 

The  picturesque  garb  of  the  woods— sombrero, 
hunting  jacket,  corduroy  trousers  and  leggings — 
he  wore  attractively,  and  it  was  easy  to  imagine 
that  in  the  evening  dress  of  civilization  he  would 
have  been  no  less  a  striking  and  handsome 
figure. 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl  eagerly,  "I'm  so  glad  you 
are  here." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  be  here,  little  girl,"  re- 
turned MacDonald  in  his  big,  genial  way.  "How 
are  you?  " 

"Dreaming — dreaming  all  day,  dreaming  of 
what  you  said  to  me  last  night,"  she  replied  im- 
pulsively. 

67 


THE    WOLF 

"I  know,"  he  said,  with  a  comprehensive, 
sympathetic  glance  of  his  lively  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  could  hardly  think  it  was  all  true," 
Hilda  whispered. 

"What?"  he  asked  caressingly. 

"That  you  are  really  going  to  take  me  away 
from  here — from  father — from  everything  that 
has  made  me  so  unhappy;  to  see  something  that 
lies  beyond  the  woods  and  the  barrens;  to  see 
the  big  cities  and  the  people  and  the  ladies." 

She  halted  the  rush  of  words,  and  came  close 
and  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"You  did  mean  what  you  said  to  me,  didn't 
you — every  word?" 

MacDonald  took  both  her  hands  and  drew  her 
over  to  the  pine  tree  seat  and  sat  down  with  her. 

"Every  word,"  he  said.  "You  know,  Hilda, 
I've  seen  how  you  suffered  with  your  father. 
I've  heard  the  whole  pitiful  story  of  your  mother 
and — I  love  you.  Do  you  know  what  love  is?" 

68 


THE    WOLF 

he  added  suddenly,  and  looked  at  her  with  some- 
thing of  amused  curiosity  lurking  behind  an  out- 
wardly ardent  glance. 

The  girl's  golden-haired  head  moved  slowly, 
negatively. 

"No,"  she  answered;  "but  it  must  be  very 
beautiful.  Do  they  have  it  up  here  in  the  woods 
just  like  they  do  in  your  country?" 

The  childish  innocence  of  the  query  stirred 
the  imagination  of  Mac  Donald. 

"Yes/'  he  said,  and  his  voice  got  the  swinging 
cadence  of  a  song  almost;  "they  have  it  every- 
where. The  birds  have  it,  the  wolves  have  it, 
and  every  living  thing  has  it.  And  you,  Hilda, 
will  have  it.  No  matter  what  your  father  has 
done;  no  matter  how  harsh  he  has  been  to  you, 
or  how  he  has  brought  you  up;  no  matter  what 
he  has  said  of  your  mother,  poor  soul — you, 
Hilda,  will  have  love  too.  As  I  told  you  last 
night,  you  shall  not  stay  here  in  this  loneliness 
69 


THE    WOLF 

forever.  You  must  go  beyond  the  woods  and 
prairies  and  into  the  world  with  me.  You've 
never  even  had  any  kindness,  Hilda.  You  must 
have  some  kindness." 

"I  have  had  kindness,"  she  said  to  him. 
"Jules  has  been  kind.  Every  summer  for  two 
years  he  has  come  here,  and  he  has  always  been 
kind  to  me.  He  has  made  me  laugh,  and  he  has 
treated  me  just  as  if  mother  had  never  done 
wrong,  as  father  says.  Jules  is  good — isn't  he?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  said  MacDonald  easily.  "Do  you 
care  for  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Love  him?" 

Hilda  stared  and  smiled. 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  means.  No  one  ever 
said  anything  to  me  about  that  until  you  did  last 
night.  How  do  you  tell  when  you  are  in 
love?" 

MacDonald  leaned  quickly  toward  her  and 
70 


THE    WOLF 

caught  her  hand.  The  deep  qualities  in  his  voice 
thrilled  the  girl  as  he  said : 

"One  feels  just  as  I  feel  toward  you — just  as 
if  it  were  absolutely  necessary  for  you  to  be 
with  me,  and  always  with  me.  Something  sort 
of  grips  you  here."  He  placed  her  hand  upon 
his  heart  almost  roughly.  "Do  you  feel  that, 
Hilda?  Does  your  heart  beat  as  mine  is  beat- 
ing now?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know,"  she  answered 
confusedly.  "I  only  know  that  I  have  been  so 
lonely  and  unhappy  and  miserable.  Oh,  so  mis- 
erable!" 

All  unheard,  Jules  Beaubien  had  come  to  the 
house  by  the  woodland  path.  He  paused,  his 
cigarette  half  lifted  to  his  lips,  and  he  saw  the 
engineer's  face  thrust  so  closely  to  the  girl's  that 
his  lips  were  almost  touching  her  cheek,  as  he 
said: 

"I  want  to  take  you  away  from  here— from 
71 


THE    WOLF 

the  cruelty  of  your  father,  and  all  that.    Will 
you  go  when  I  go,  Hilda?  " 

"You  mean  to  marry  you?" 

"Yes;  just  that." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — I  don't  know."  His  hands 
were  upon  her  arms.  "I  must  go !  I  must  go !" 
she  cried,  and  there  was  a  sob  in  her  throat  as 
she  slipped  away  from  him  and  ran  into  the 
house. 

"Hello,  MacDonald,"  said  Jules  Beaubien, 
stepping  forward.  "Have  you  worked  much  to- 
day?" 

At  the  sound  of  Jules'  voice,  MacDonald 
wheeled  quickly.  For  an  instant  he  was  ill  at 
ease. 

"Hello,  Beaubien,  where  did  you  come  from?" 
he  asked  sharply. 

The  lithe,  handsome  Jules  laughed  at  him, 
showing  his  very  white  and  even  teeth,  the  while 
he  drooped  a  lid  over  one  expressive  brown  eye. 
72 


THE    WOLF 

"From  heaven,"  he  answered  cheerfully.  "I 
am — what  you  call  him? — a  fairy  king.  Once 
I  have  read  of  such  a  king  in  one  of  your  books. 
He  is  everywhere  and  nowhere — and  everywhere 
when  he  isn't  wanted.  Eh?" 

MacDonald  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"Why,  you  are  always  wanted,  you  beggar. 
Among  others,  I  like  to  have  you  around  my- 
self." 

"Merci!  And  I — I  like  to  be  around.  Only 
here  it  is  somewhat  lonely,  eh?" 

"How,  lonely,  Beaubien?" 

"  I  mean  for  you." 

"I  don't  get  you." 

"Ah,  we  have  forests;  eh,  M'sieur  MacDonald?" 

"Yes." 

"And  rivers,  and  plenty  of  lakes  with  fish; 

three  meals  a  day  and  a  good  night's  sleep.    But, 

ah!  there  is  one  thing  we  lack,  is  there  not? 

One  thing  you  may  not  be  happy  without,  eh?" 

73 


THE    WOLF 

"What — what  are  you  driving  at?" 

"Women.  Is  it  not  so,  M'sieur  MacDonald? 
There  are  but  few.  I  think  you  like  them  very 
much,  eh?" 

"Jules,  you  are  a  happy-hearted  beggar,  but 
you  are  not  nearly  as  clever  as  I  thought  you 
were.  I've  been  all  over  the  world,  Jules ' 

"Well,  I  also  have  been  out  in  the  world- 
Montreal,  Quebec  and  Buffalo.  What  more  can 
a  man  ask?  " 

"I  mean,  Jules,  I  have  been  in  all  the  wilder- 
nesses of  the  world  as  well.  And  your  argument 
is  wrong." 

"How,  wrong,  M'sieur  MacDonald?     I  am 

always  noted  in  Canada  for  being  one  very  smart 
man." 

"Well,"  grinned  MacDonald,  "that  wouldn't 
carry  you  through  the  world — being  smart  in 
Canada." 

Jules  made  a  little  bow. 
74 


THE    WOLF 

"It  satisfies  me,"  he  answered.  "I  have 
money — plenty.  My  father  left  me  much.  I 
could  go  to  France  or  America,  but  I  prefer  my 
own  country.  Only  there  is  one  drawback." 

"That  is?" 

"No  ladies,"  laughed  Jules. 

He  was  watching  MacDonald  narrowly.  The 
engineer  said  a  bit  flamboyantly: 

"Why,  that's  never  troubled  me.  I've  always 
been  able  to  find  them — somehow,  some  place — 
no  matter  where  I  might  be." 

"You  have?"  inquired  the  young  Canadian 
in  surprised  tones.  "But  here,  for  instance,  you 
are  quite  alone." 

"Oh,  not  altogether,"  said  the  big  man  com- 
placently. "There's  one." 

"Hilda?" 

"I  said  there  was  one  here." 

"You  like  her,  eh,  M'sieur  MacDonald?" 

"Do  you?"  demanded  the  other. 
75 


THE    WOLF 

"Oh — oh,  yes;  I  like  her.  She  amuses  me. 
And  you?  She  amuses  you,  too?" 

"Yes,"  assented  McDonald,  his  self-compla- 
cency still  uppermost. 

"Yet,"  observed  Jules,  "Hilda  is  only  a  child." 

"Twenty-one,"  observed  the  engineer. 

"Still,  MacDonald,  she  knows  nothing.  She 
is — what  you  say? — innocent." 

"Jules,  my  boy,  that's  what  makes  her  interest- 
ing. When  a  woman  ceases  to  be  innocent,  she 
ceases  to  be  interesting.  That's  my  way  of 
looking  at  it." 

Beaubien  rolled  a  cigarette  deftly  with  his 
slender,  strong  young  fingers.  Had  MacDonald's 
thoughts  not  been  otherwise  steeped,  he  might 
have  noticed  that  the  young  Canadian's  fingers 
trembled  slightly. 

"Maybe  you  are  right,"  said  Jules  cas- 
ually. 

He  looked  up  suddenly:  "And  now  I  am  going 
76 


THE    WOLF  \ 

to  tell  you  a  little  secret,   MacDonald.    You 
have  been  making  love  to  Hilda." 

"So  have  you,"  retorted  the  other  man. 

"Did  she  tell  you  so?" 

"Why,  I  know  you,  Jules.  You  couldn't  any 
more  help  making  love  to  a  woman  than  I  could. 
A  man  has  to  have  some  relaxation,  eh?  It 
would  be  strange  if  you  didn't." 

Jules  laughed. 

"How  are  you  getting  on?"  he  asked. 

"None  of  your  business,"  answered  MacDonald, 
with  a  grin.  He  sauntered  to  the  pine  tree  seat 
and  reclined  there. 

"That's  right,"  commented  Beaubien,  taking 
a  seat  beside  him.  Jules  was  silent  for  several 
seconds.  Covertly  he  watched  MacDonald's  face 
until  he  saw  a  look  of  abstraction  come  into  the 
engineer's  eyes.  Then  Jules  said  quickly,  suddenly: 

"You  have  a  wife  in  America,  M'sieur  Mac- 
Donald?" 

77 


THE    WOLF 

"Yes,  and  a  family,"  the  engineer  answered 
almost  as  quickly,  and  in  the  same  instant  a  look 
of  annoyance  came  into  his  face.  On  considera- 
tion, he  would  not  have  said  so  much. 

Beaubien's  tone  went  to  reassure  him. 

"Ah,  but  you  are  like  me.  What  do  you  say 
— out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,  eh?  We  are  both 
travelers.  A  wife  here  or  a  wife  there  makes 
little  difference  as  long  as  it's  just  a  promise." 

"True  for  you,  Jules.  What  are  women  for 
but  to  amuse  you?  I  go  out  to  build  railroads. 
I  serve  progress.  Why  should  not  I  have  a 
little  amusement?  But,  you  beggar,  we  are 
rivals  here — is  that  it?  " 

"None  of  your  business." 

Mac  Donald  laughed  heartily. 

"Oh,  well,  you  are  not  the  first  Frenchman  I 
have  gone  up  against  and  got  the  best  of." 

"In  France?" 

"No,  in  Canada.  Three  years  ago  in  the 
78 


THE    WOLF 

Nipissing  country.     Ah,  my    boy,  she  was  a 
beauty." 

Beaubien  suddenly  tossed  away  his  cigarette. 

"French-Canadian?"  he  asked. 

"Half-breed,"  rejoined  MacDonald. 

"Ah!  So?  Maybe  I  know  her." 

"Wish  you  did.  Do  you  know,  I'd  really  like 
to  find  out  what  became  of  her?"  MacDonald 
smiled  fatuously.  "Yes,  I'd  like  to  know  what 
became  of  her/'  he  continued.  "She  was  one  of 
those  crosses  between  a  good  Frenchman  and 
an  Ojibway,  you  know." 

"Sure,"  answered  Beaubien,  with  averted  head 
and  white  lips.  "I  know." 

"She  was  certainly  a  beautiful  girl,  Jules," 
MacDonald  went  on,  enthusiastically.  "Indian 
and  all.  I  always  figured  her  about  three-quar- 
ters French." 

"And  the  rival  you  spoke  about,  M'sienr  Mac- 
Donald.    Was  he  French?" 
79 


THE  WOLF 

"Well,  I  never  saw  him.  He  was  up  in  the 
north  woods,  some  one  said.  I  suppose  he  was 
one  of  those  solemn,  unkempt  fellows  like  that 
man  of  yours — what's  his  name?" 

"Ba'tiste." 

MacDonald  nodded. 

"I  was  bottled  up  in  that  country,  Jules,  and 
half  mad  for  a  little  female  society.  I  won  her 
out,  but  after  awhile  she  began  to  talk  about  a 
priest  and  marriage  so  strong  that  I  had  to  get 
out." 

"So,  M'sieur  MacDonald,  you  left  her — this 
Annette?" 

"Why,  certainly  I  did.  You  wouldn't  want  to 
have  a  half-breed  around  with  you,  would  you? 
Besides,  she  told  me  there  was  trouble." 

"You  mean  that " 

"Exactly,  Jules,  my  boy.  I  didn't  care  to 
have  a  quarter-breed  Ojibway  in  my  family,  so  I 
went  home.  Afterward  somebody  said — I  don't 
80 


THE  WOLF 

know  who — that  she  got  caught  in  a  blizzard 
and  froze  to  death  with  her  child." 

Fighting  the  fury  that  stormed  in  his  breast 
as  he  listened  to  the  big  engineer  tell  thus  coldly 
the  terrible  story  of  Annette,  and  tell  it  without 
so  much  as  a  quaver  of  emotion,  of  regret,  re- 
morse, or  pity  in  his  voice,  Jules  asked : 

"And  you  think,  M'sieur  MacDonald,  that 
this  was  the  best  thing  for  this  Annette  to  do — 
to  die  in  the  blizzard  with  her  child?" 

"Well,  after  all,  certainly !    Don't  you? " 

"I  will  think  it  over  and  some  time  I  will  tell 
you,"  answered  the  young  Canadian. 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  that  struck  Mac- 
Donald  suddenly. 

"Well,  don't  get  so  serious  about  it,"  he  ob- 
served. 

"Oh,"  answered  Jules,  laughing  quickly,  "they 
say  I  am  never  serious." 

"That's  the  right  way  to  be.  Do  you  know, 
81 


THE  WOLF 

Jules,  if  ever  you  got  civilized  and  came  to  my 
country  I  think  we'd  be  good  friends." 

All  Jules'  easiness  of  manner  had  returned. 
He  threw  up  his  hands  and  his  shoulders  and 
widened  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  M'sieur  MacDonald,  don't  you  think  I'm 
eivilized?" 

"Oh,  certainly — Montreal,  Quebec  and  Buffalo 
— what  more  could  a  man  ask?" 

"And  also,"  grinned  Jules,  "Niagara  Falls." 

"And  some  day,"  said  MacDonald,  continuing 
the  banter,  "if  you  live  long  enough,  Jules,  you 
may  reach  Toronto." 

"And  if  you  live  long  enough,  MacDonald,"said 
Jules  quickly," you  may  reach  the  United  States." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"This  is  a  wild  country,  M'sieur  MacDonald, 
is  it  not?  Many  men  die.  Who  knows  who  will 
die  next?  Either  of  us  or  one  of  us  may  die  soon 
—don't  you  think?" 

82 


THE  WOLF 


"No,  I  don't.  I  don't  want  any  such  gloomy 
thoughts  about  me,  either.  I've  lived  long, 
Jules,  and  I'm  going  to  live  a  lot  longer.  You  see 
there  are  still  plenty  of  Annettes  left.  And  you?  " 

"C'est  bien.    We  are  rivals." 

"For  the  old  man's  daughter,  eh?" 

"Well,  are  we  not?" 

"You  can  count  me  one  if  you  like,"  grinned 
MacDonald,  "but  I  don't  count  you.  And  any- 
way, it's  all  a  joke,  eh?" 

"Oh,  a  joke,  M'sieur  MacDonald.  Now  it  is 
a  laugh — yes?" 

The  engineer  slapped  Jules  on  the  shoulder 
with  boisterous  good  humor,  and  then  announced 
that  he  was  going  into  the  house  to  clean  up  for 
dinner. 

"Coming  in?"  he  asked. 

"Very  soon,"  said  Jules.    "Au  revoir." 

When  MacDonald  had  disappeared  the  youth 
stood  peering  at  the  house.  In  the  intensity  of 

83 


THE    WOLF 

his  emotions  his  lithe  figure  shook.  Even  under 
the  bronze  of  his  handsome  face  the  color  of  livid 
wrath  was  discernible. 

His  thoughts  were  flaming.  He  had  found 
the  man.  He  had  trailed  the  wolf.  This  big, 
handsome,  remorseless  human  creature  was  the 
one  whose  life  he  must  destroy.  This  was  An- 
nette's betrayer. 

His  impulse  was  to  rush  into  the  house  and 
upon  MacDonald,  throttle  him,  stab  him,  slay 
him  swiftly.  Again  and  again  the  impulse  had 
surged  into  his  brain  as  he  had  sat  and  listened 
to  the  unsuspecting  engineer  almost  gayly  confess- 
ing his  deep  villainy. 

But  there  was  not  only  Annette  to  be  avenged. 
There  was  Hilda — Hilda,  whom  Jules  loved, 
whom  he  must  first  get  away  from  the  dangerous 
snares  that  MacDonald  was  laying  for  her.  With 
Hilda  out  of  MacDonald's  way  and  wholly  pro- 
tected, the  time  of  vengeance  would  be  at  hand. 
84 


CHAPTER  VI 

"SHE  MUST  TAKE  CARE  OP  HERSELF" 

If  the  eyesight  of  McTavish  had  not  been 
dimmed  he  would  have  seen  in  the  face  of 
Jules  Beaubien,  as  he  stood  staring  at  the  house 
into  which  MacDonald  had  just  disappeared,  that 
which  would  have  had  excited  his  curiosity;  for 
the  nostrils  of  Jules  were  dilated  and  his  eyes 
were  glaring.  But  McTavish  saw  none  of  this 
as  he  lumbered  out  of  the  house. 

"Jules,  mon,  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,"  he  said,  with 
as  near  an  approach  to  geniality  as  his  nature 
would  allow.  Then  he  looked  cautiously  about. 

"Is  the  young  deevil  around?" 

"  I  don't  understand. " 

"That  young  jackanapes  that's  wi'  Mr.  Mac- 
Donald,"  grunted  McTavish  disgustedly. 

"Ah!  M'sieur  Ferguson?" 
85 


THE    WOLF 

"I  would  nae  call  him  that,  Jules,  mon,  he 
treats  me  wi'  nae  respect." 

"Ah,  that  is  not  good." 

"Called  me  Santa  Glaus,  mon,  and  Bonnie 
Prince  Charlie,  and  made  sport  of  me  white 
hair.  What  would  ye  do  to  him,  Jules?  What 
would  ye  do  to  him?  He'll  drive  me  mad  wi' 
his  impudence." 

"I'd  pay  little  attention  to  him,  M'sieur.  Or, 
better  still,  when  he  says  things  about  your  coun- 
try, you  say  something  back  about  his  coun- 
try." 

"I  canna  say  anything  back  at  the  moment, 
but  me  fingers  tingle  to  wring  his  neck,  they  do, 
the  young  jackanapes." 

"Make  just  one  little  bit  of  fun  of  his  own  coun- 
try, and  I  promise  you  he'll  get  just  as  mad  as 
yourself. " 

"Now,  then,"  said  McTavish,  fumbling  at  his 
long  yellowish  white  beard,  "that's  a  good  idea. 


THE    WOLF 

When  next  I  see  the  brat,  Jules,  I'll  look  into  his 
face  and  cry:  'Doon  wi'  the  President  and 

God  save  the  King!'  Ye've  a  clever  head  on  ye, 
Jules,  for  a  Frenchman,  and  I  canna'  help 
thinkin'  that  some  place  in  yer  family  there's  a 
strain  o'  Scotch." 

"And  'soda,'"  laughed  Jules. 

"'Tis  another  good  thing  aboot  ye,  too,  Jules, " 
assented  McTavish,  with  a  dry  chuckle.  "Ye 
could  drink  almost  as  much  as  I  can,  and  it 
stands  to  reason  nae  regular  Frenchman  could 
do  that.  Well,  now  then,  I'll  gae  into  the  hoose 
and  say  to  the  young  jackanapes,  'Boon  wi'  the 
President  and  God  save  the  King.' " 

But  Jules  suddenly  recalled  him. 

"M'sieur  M'Tavish!" 

"What  is  it,  mon?" 

"I  have  been  coming  here  one,  two  summers, 
eh?" 

"Ye  hae,  mon,  and  welcome  ye've  been." 
87 


THE    WOLF 

"Many  a  night  you  and  me,  M'sieur  M'Tavish, 
have  sat  up  to  see  the  sun  come  over  the  tree 
tops.  And  one  night,  two  years  ago,  do  you  re- 
member, you  were  telling  me  about  your  wife 
and  Hilda?" 

McTavish's  geniality  passed  under  a  cloud  of 
ferocity. 

"Weel,  I  told  ye,"  he  cried,  "that  the  wee- 
man  was  nae  guid  an'  that  the  daughter  looked 
like  her.  She  has  the  curse  o'  her  yellow 
hair." 

"Oui,  M'sieur  M'Tavish,  you  told  me  all  that, 
but  you*  also  told  me  that  Hilda— 

"She's  nae  guid,"  sharply  interrupted  Mc- 

« 
Tavish.    "She  has  the  curse  o*  the  original  sm 

stamped  on  her,  and  Jules,   mon,   maybe  her 
heart  is  black  wi'  the  brand  o'  the  deevil!" 

"One  can  never  tell,  M'sieur  M'Tavish,"  an- 
swered Jules  gently;  "but  listen!  That  night 
you  told  me,  Jules  Beaubien,  who  am  speaking 

88 


THE    WOLF 

to  you  now,  that  Hilda  was  never  to  meet 

English  or  Americans  or  any  one  except  the 

* 
Indians  and  the  traders.    You  told  me  that  this 

was  the  system  by  which  you  hoped  to  send  her 
soul  to  Heaven.  You  said  it  was  your  duty  and 
that  was  why  you  brought  her  into  the  wilder- 
ness. Is  it  not  so,  mon  ami?" 

McTavish  lowered  his  big  head  with  its 
heavy  shock  of  white  hair. 

"Ye  speak  the  truth,"  he  answered. 

"Then  why,  M'sieur  M'Tavish, "  continued 
Jules,  his  voice  low  almost  to  whispering,  "why, 
M'sieur  MacDonald  and  M'sieur  Ferguson?  Is 
there  no  danger?" 

McTavish  clenched  his  gaunt  hands. 

"Jules,  Hilda  is  twenty-one,"  he  said,  angrily. 
"'Tis  time  she  learned  to  tak'  care  o'  hersel'. 
I've  doon  me  duty  as  a  faither  and  a  member  of 
the  kirk,  though  it's  been  a  long  time  since  I 
prayed  in  a  house  o'  worship.  I've  been  a  guid 


THE    WOLF 

faither  to  Hilda,  and  now  she  must  tak'  care  o' 
hersel'." 

"But  if  something  should  happen;  what  then?" 

"Then  lad,"  answered  the  Scot  with  a  great 
resonance  in  his  harsh  voice,  "then  I'd  know 
'twas  the  mither  in  her  blood  an*  the  wicked- 
ness in  her  soul." 

McTavish  paused  and  wheeled,  facing  Jules 
fully.  He  brought  up  his  big  hands,  with  their 
long,  bony  fingers  distended,  and  cried  furious- 
ly, "An'  I'd  take  out  her  life  wi'  me  bare  hands— 
me  bare  hands  on  her  throat.  It  would  be  me 
duty  to  mesel'  an'  the  Church  to  kill  such  a  wan- 
ton daughter." 

"But  the  man,  M'sieur  M'Tavish;  what  of 
him?" 

"The  mon?  I  dinna  ken  what  he  would  do 
after  having  been  lured  to  his  destruction. 
'Twould  be  her — the  girl — that'd  merit  the 
punishment  o'  death." 

90 


THE    WOLF 

Jules  was  looking  in  astonishment  at  the  old 
man  who  had  with  such  evident  sincerity  made  this 
hideous  declaration,  when  the  tensity  of  the 
scene  was  broken  by  the  voice  of  Ferguson  crying: 

"Hello,  there,  King  Jamie!  How's  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots?" 

Rage  came  into  McTavish's  face.  He  clenched 
his  hands  and  puckered  his  brow  in  the  effort 
to  remember  the  blow  of  retort  that  he  had 
planned  for  Ferguson.  Finally  he  got  it  out — but 
backwards,  for  in  his  rage  he  blunderingly 
blurted : 

"Boon  wi'  the  King  and  God  save  the  Presi- 
dent." 

"That's  right,"  chirped  Ferguson,  slapping 
him  heartily  on  the  back.  "Scots  awa',  and 
hooray  for  the  Irish.  Doon  wi'  the  Germans 
and  God  bless  the  Swedes!" 

McTavish,  bellowing  his  wrath,  retreated  into 
the  house  to  escape  the  gibing. 
91 


THE    WOLF 

Little  Ferguson  held  his  ribs. 

"Jules,  what  a  great  time  I'm  having  with 
that  old  man!  It  would  be  mighty  dull  for  me 
here  if  he  wasn't  around." 

"You  make  him  very  angry." 

"Well,  Jules,  he  makes  me  sore,  too,  the  way 
he  treats  that  girl." 

"Hilda?" 

"Yes.  Just  as  if  she  was  to  blame  because 
her  mother  had  yellow  hair  and  couldn't  stand 
this  old  duffer's  abuse.  Say,  can  you  see  me 
living  with  the  same  kind  of  a  woman  that  he 
is  a  man?  And  listen,  if  I  ever  got  up  against 
a  proposition  like  that  I'd  beat  it  if  I  had  to  elope 
with  the  family  cat." 

"You  like  Hilda?"  smiled  Jules. 

"Sure  I  like  her,"  said  the  boy  heartily.  "Of 
course,  I  ain't  in  love  with  her  or  anything  like 
that,  because  I've  quit  all  that  business." 

"Yes?" 

92 


THE    WOLF 

"Yes,  Jules.  As  a  lady-killer,  I'm  probably 
the  most  complete  and  absolute  failure  on  the 
masculine  bargain  counter.  I've  been  up  on  the 
remnant  shelf  in  the  matrimonial  store  for  years, 
and  not  even  a  servant  girl  has  ever  dug  into 
her  purse  of  affection  to  make  one  stingy  little 
bid  for  yours  truly.  Sentimentally  speaking, 
I'm  out.  How  about  you?" 

"Me?" 

"Yes.  Are  you  long  on  getting  girls  to  fall  in 
love  with  you?" 

Jules  shook  his  head. 

"Why,  no,  M'sieur  Ferguson.  I've  never  had 
any  one  in  love  with  me — at  least,  no  girls.  My 
man,  Ba'tiste  Le  Grand,  loves  me  in  his  dog- 
like  way,  but  I  am  alone  in  the  world — even 
more  so  than  yourself." 

Ferguson  smiled. 

"If  enough  of  our  sort  get  together  we'll  have 
a  \ot  of  company,"  he  observed.  "I  guess, 
93 


THE    WOLF 

after  all,  well  have  to  give  MacDonald  the  credit. " 

"Why  MacDonald?" 

"Why,  MacDonald  is  the  one  great,  positive 
success  in  the  lovemaking  business.  He's  had 
enough  girls,  Jules,  and  has  enough  now,  I  guess, 
so  that  if  he  wanted  to  hand  them  around  he 
could  supply  all  us  fellows  and  still  have  a 
few  left." 

"What   kind    of   girls,    M'sieur    Ferguson?" 

"All  kinds.  I  don't  think  he  stops  at  either 
creed  or  color.  And,  by  the  way,  I  think  he  is 
casting  his  eyes  towards  Hilda.  If  he  does, 
Jules,  I  think  I  am  going  to  ask  him  to  quit." 

"Did  you  ever  tell  him  to  quit  before,  M'sieur 
Ferguson?" 

"Oh,  In  New  York,"  answered  the  boy,  "it 
was  different.  I'll  stand  for  his  running  after 
those  kind  of  girls,  because — well,  there's  no  real 
goodness  about  that  sort.  But  when  he  takes  a 
poor,  innocent  girl  like  Hilda,  who's  been  whipped 

94 


THE    WOLF 

to  a  finish  by  her  father,  gets  hold  of  her  sym- 
pathies and  then  turns  mean  tricks,  it's  about 
time  to  quit.  Eh,  Jules?  " 

Young  Ferguson  was  somewhat  astounded  by 
the  warmth  and  vigor  with  which  he  suddenly 
found  his  hand  gripped  by  Beaubien. 

"You  are  a  good  man,  M'sieur  Ferguson,"  said 
Jules.  "And  now,  listen  to  me,  Jules  Beaubien, 
who  is  talking  to  you  and  he  knows  what  he  says — 
Jules  tells  you  that  M'sieur  MacDonald  may  get 
her  sympathies,  but  this  is  once  when  he  will 
never  turn  the  trick." 

Ferguson  could  read  more  in  Jules'  eyes  than 
even  his  words  had  declared. 

"I'm  on,"  he  said  quietly.  "And  declare  me  in 
when  the  rumpus  comes." 

Hilda  came  out  of  the  low,  wide  doorway  of 
the  rough  log  house  to  call  the  two  young  men  to 
their  supper.  Ferguson  responded  to  the  sum- 
mons on  the  jump,  but  Jules  and  Hilda  lingered. 
95 


THE    WOLF 

The  tall  young  Canadian  looked  fondly  down 
upon  the  slender,  golden-haired  girl. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  day,  Jules?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  I've  just  walked  over  to  Lac  le  Sable.  A 
good  morning's  tramp  there  and  back,little  Hilda." 

"Why  did  you  go?" 

"Why?  Ah,  just  a  whim!  The  woods  are 
exquisite  now — all  brown  and  gold.  And  this  is 
the  last  touch  of  warm  weather,  this  Indian 
summer." 

"The  last,"  said  the  girl,  sadly.  "And  then 
the  everlasting  cold  will  come,"  she  went  on, 
shuddering.  "Night  after  night  and  day  after 
day  we  will  be  shut  up  in  the  house,  and  never 
hear  anything  but  the  moaning  of  the  pines  and 
the  crack  of  the  frost  and  the  yelp  of  some  wolf 
scratching  at  the  door  for  food." 

"Hilda,"  interrupted  Jules  gently,  sympathet- 
ically. 

96 


THE    WOLF 

"And  there'll  never  be  any  sun,"  continued 
the  girl.  "And  it  will  always  be  dark,  and  the 
nights  will  be  long.  And  all  the  time  my  father 
will  be  looking  at  me  with  his  queer,  cold  gray 
eyes  and  telling  me  that  my  hair  is  yellow  and 
my  soul  is  black!  Oh,  God,"  she  cried,  with  a 
sudden  undertone  of  moaning  and  despair.  "I 
can't  stand  it." 

"Petite  amie,"  said  Jules  quickly,  soothingly, 
"there  is  a  fitness  in  all  things.  This  all  means  a 
road  to  somewhere — some  place  for  rest  and  love. 
Only  be  very,  very  careful,  little  girl.  Don't  let 
your  impatience  hurt  you.  Sometimes  I  think 
all  is  for  the  good  when  one  is  good,  and  all  is  for 
the  bad  when  one  is  bad.  And,  Hilda,  you  are 
good.  I,  Jules  Beaubien,  who  am  speaking  to 
you  now  and  who  knows,  say  your  soul  is  white 
and  always  will  be  white." 

She  lifted  her  young,  graceful  head  and  im- 
pulsively took  his  hand. 
97 


THE    WOLF 

"  'Mon  ami/  Jules,  you  say,  means  'my 
friend.'  Teach  me  to  say  'my  one  friend/  and  I 
shall  always  say  it  to  you." 

"Mon  cher  ami." 

"Mon  cher  ami,"  she  repeated  tenderly.  They 
stood  in  silence. 

"Why,"  asked  Jules,  happening  to  look  down- 
ward at  her  other  hand,  in  which  a  magazine 
was  clasped,  "what  is  that  book?" 

"It  is  the  first  one  I  ever  saw — a  magazine  that 
Mr.  MacDonald  gave  me.  I've  read  it  through 
twice,  and  I  think  it  is  the  most  beautiful  thing 
that  I  ever  saw  in  the  world — even  more  beautiful 
than  the  'Lady  of  the  Lake/" 

"Ah!  What  would  you  do  if  you  ever  saw  a 
news  stand  in  Montreal,  Quebec  or  Buffalo  where 
there  are  hundreds  of  those?"  Jules  took  up 
the  magazine  and  scanned  its  pages.  "These 
are  pretty  pictures,  eh?" 

"Actresses,"  said  the  girl.  "And  you  know 
98 


THE    WOLF 

that  Mr.  MacDonald  knows  nearly  all  of  them 
himself." 

"Maybe  he  told  all  about  them,  eh?" 
"He  did.    What  a  wonderful  man  he  is!" 
"You  like  him  very  much,  Hilda?" 
"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  and  the  doubtful 
wag  of  her  yellow  head  was  very  girlish.    "Some- 
times I  do,  and  sometimes  I'm  almost  afraid. 
He  tells  me  all  about  that  wonderful  country 
beyond  the  pines  and  the  mountains,  things  I 
never  even  heard  of,  things  a  woman's  heart 
aches  for.    No  one  ever  took  the  trouble  to  tell 
me  before." 

"Maybe,  Hilda,  it  is  not  good  to  tell  one  about 
a  country  one  cannot  reach." 
"Perhaps  it  is  not,  but  Jules — " 
"Yes." 

"You — you  don't  have  to  live  up  here  in  the 
snow,  away  from  everything,  in  the  ice,  the  cold 
and  the  dreary  woods.    You've  been  in  Montreal, 
99 


THE    WOLF 

Winnipeg,  Quebec  and  even  to  the  United  States, 
and  you  have  money.  You  told  me  your  father 
left  it  to  you.  Why  do  you  stay  here — away 
from  everything?" 

"A  man's  heart,  Hilda,"  answered  the  young 
Canadian,  "calls  him  where  it  will,  and  he  can 
give  no  reason.  I  have  been  told  that  some 
love  the  song  of  the  sea,  and  some  the  song  of 
the  cities;  that  some  men  can  live  only  where 
there  are  thousands  of  men,  and  other  men 
cannot  live  except  when  feeling  the  roll  of  the 
ocean  under  their  feet.  But  me — I  am  a 
French-Canadian.  For  six  generations  we  have 
borne  our  children  close  to  nature.  Their  lullaby 
at  night  has  been  the  moaning  of  the  pine  and 
the  birch,  and  the  morning  song  has  been  that 
of  a  thousand  birds.  To  me,  Hilda,  the  forest 
speaks  as  my  comrade;  the  bleak  barrens  wel- 
come me  to  fight  them.  The  snow,  the  cold,  the 
ice,  the  dogs,  the  sledge, — they're  all  a  part  of 
100 


THE    WOLF 

my  heart.  The  North  has  been  my  only  bride, 
and  she  is  always  young,  with  a  smile  on  her 
face." 

"Yes,  yes,  Jules;  I  know  and  I  can  understand 
how  you  feel.  And  maybe  I  might  feel  that  way, 
too,  if  my  hair  wasn't  yellow  and  my  father  was 
kind." 

"Hilda!  Hilda!"  called  the  harsh  voice  of 
McTavish  from  within  the  house. 

"But  he  is  not  kind,  and  he  never  will  be," 
sobbed  the  girl.  "I  must  go,  Jules — Jules,  mon 
cher  ami!" 

Love  there  was  in  the  eyes  of  Jules,  and  a  great 
sadness  withal,  as  he  looked  after  her  intently. 
And  so  he  stood  lost  in  reverie,  and  all  was  silent 
about  him.  Twilight  had  fairly  darkened  into 
night.  A  faint,  fragrant  wind-song  murmured 
through  the  pines. 

A  touch  on  Jules's  shoulder  caused  him  to  turn 
swiftly.    It    was    to    see    Baptiste — the   rough 
101 


THE    WOLF 

uncouth,  affectionate  comrade  of  the  long  man- 
hunt in  the  forests. 

"You,"  exclaimed  Jules  huskily,  "I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you.  Listen!" 

"Oui." 

"You  remember  Annette?" 

Baptiste  moved  back  as  if  struck  in  the  face. 

"Oui,  Annette,  Annette!" 

"We  have  not  spoken  her  name  in  two  years, 
Ba'tiste.  But  now  I  am  going  to  speak  it. 
Always  we  have  thought  of  the  man,  and  that 
sometime,  Ba'tiste,  we  would  find  him.  Is  it 
not  so?" 

"Yes,  yes;  it  is  so." 

"I  have  found  him,  Ba'tiste!" 

"Thees  man — you  have  fin'  heem?"  whispered 
Baptiste,  and  murderous  fury  gleamed  in  the  eyes 
that  had  been  so  ca'm  and  doglike. 

"MacDonald,"  said  Jules  briefly. 

"Sacred  God!"  Baptiste's  hand  went  to  his 
102 


THE    WOLF 

belt  and  his  knife  gleamed  out  of  its  scabbard. 
He  would  have  rushed  straight  into  the  house 
but  that  Beaubien  caught  him. 

"Non,"  said  Jules  commandingly.  "This  is 
my  business.  Annette,  she  is  my  sister.  But  it 
is  not  time  yet.  He  is  trying  to  do  the  same 
thing  again."  Jules  nodded  toward  the  house. 
"Hilda." 

"Sacred  God!"  whispered  Baptists. 

"Ba'tiste,  soon  this  time  of  killing — it  will 
come.  I  am  Annette's  brother.  I  love  Hilda. 
My  chance,  Ba'tiste,  is  the  first  chance.  But, 
mon  ami,  if  I  do  not  make  one  great,  grand  success 
—then  you — you  do  the  rest.  Understand?" 

"Keel?" 

"Yes." 

"I  onnerstan'." 

"That  is  good,  Ba'tiste.  Now  I  go  to  my 
supper — calmly — calmly — oh,  Ba'tiste! " 

The  faint  moonlight  showed  the  great,  hulking 
103 


THE    WOLF 

form  of  Baptiste  huddled  in  prayer  by  the  pine 
tree  seat,  his  face  turned  toward  the  vast  loneliness 
and  darkness  of  the  forest  as  if  in  the  murmuring 
winds  he  read  an  answer  to  his  supplication. 

"0  good  God,"  Baptiste,  who  had  worshipped 
little  Annette,  was  saying,  "0  good  God!  Please, 
please  let  Ba'tiste  keel  thees  man." 


104 


CHAPTER  VII 

CONSCIENCELESS 

Even  Jules,  fully  aroused  as  he  .was  to  the 
infamous  design  that  MacDonald  had  against 
Hilda,  would  hardly  have  been  able  to  credit  the 
heartless  villainy  of  the  scheme  that  was  maturing 
in  the  mind  of  the  subtle  and  sophisticated  satyr. 

The  mind  of  Jules,  despite  his  little  look  into 
the  life  of  cities  as  a  student,  could  know  no  such 
consummately  conscienceless  plan  as  MacDonald 
was  evolving. 

Men  far  more  knowing  of  the  world  than 
Jules,  in  closer  contact  with  its  coils  than  he 
had  ever  been,  might  indeed  pass  their  whole 
lives  without  meeting  such  a  monstrous  type 
as  MacDonald. 

In  New  York  he  belonged  to  a  small  coterie  of 
men  about  whose  doings  there  were  merely 
105 


THE    WOLF 

cautious  whispers  from  time  to  time,  and  these 
whisperings  were  hardly  believed.  Exposure  had 
never  thrown  a  full  light  on  this  set  of  men  and 
brought  them  under  the  withering  fire  of  public 
indignation  #nd  legal  punishment. 

Practically  they  defied  exposure,  for  there  was 
none  in  this  coterie  but  was  like  MacDonald,  a 
man  of  big  achievement,  of  fame  and  wealth,  and 
therefore  highly  potential  in  their  influence  with 
such  public  authorities  as  could  have  beaten  down 
and  raided  their  dens  of  infamy  and  brought 
them  fully  out  to  bear  the  shame  and  scorn  that 
was  their  due. 

Noted  lawyers,  famous  actors,  a  celebrated 
architect,  two  painters  of  international  reputation 
and  five  or  six  men  of  leisure  were  in  this  little 
vicious  set. 

They  were  monsters  of  egoism.  They  believed 
that  their  genius  placed  them  above  the  laws  that 
were  made  to  govern  the  society  of  ordinary  men. 
106 


THE    WOLF 

They  were  loudest  in  demanding  the  enforcement 
of  laws  that  took  the  pickpocket  or  the  highway- 
man, the  burglar  or  the  murderer  to  punishment; 
but  for  themselves  and  the  pursuit  of  their  strange 
appetites  that  sacrificed  innoc^ce  as  the  most 
precious  offering  to  their  frightful  gods,  they 
claimed  immunity. 

They  held  the  great  majority  of  men  who 
sought  to  live  according  to  the  codes  of  morality 
and  religion  as  a  horde  of  mere  fools,  frightened 
into  decent  living  by  ignorance  and  superstition. 
Virtue,  purity  and  youth  were  the  things  they 
hunted  to  despoil,  and  they  called  up  the  cyni- 
cisms of  every  dissolute  philosopher,  ancient 
and  modern,  as  their  creed. 

For  their  big  achievements  in  art,  science  and 
commerce  they  demanded  absolute  license  in 
private  life  as  a  reward.  Or  at  least  such  was 
the  reward  they  took,  with  a  smile  for  the  horror 
of  those  who  came  to  know  their  infamies. 
107 


THE     WOLF 

They  haunted  the  theatres,  with  loathsome 
eyes  singly  intent  on  discovering  in  the  groups  of 
dancing  women  one  that  was  not  quite  a  woman- 
one  that  still  had  the  half -turned  lines  of  girlhood 
and  that  wore  really,  behind  the  mask  of  rouge 
and  powder,  a  countenance  of  real  innocence. 

For  the  snaring  of  such  a  one  as  this — some 
temperamental  little  creature  bewildered  by  the 
glitter  of  the  light — there  was  nothing  they  would 
not  do  in  lavish  expenditure.  To  such  youthful 
creatures,  chosen  as  their  victims,  they  gave 
jewels  for  slender  necks,  glittering  rings  for  little 
hands,  beautiful  gowns  for  slender  forms,  and 
dazzling  supper  parties  with  tinkling  music  and 
sparkling  wine. 

These  were  the  things  they  gave,  and  these 
things  were  the  luxurious  forerunners  of  the 
corruption  that  they  invariably  effected. 

Of  triumphs  of  this  sort  MacDonald  could  boast 
many.    And  he  did  boast.    That  was  part  of 
108 


THE    WOLF 

the  sport  in  this  group  and  part  of  their  pride  as 
well.  It  was  a  decoration  that  they  sought  in 
the  estimation  of  one  another — that  they  should 
be  regarded  as  ingenious,  remarkable  men,  too 
far  above  the  world's  common  estimates  to  endure 
any  of  the  limitations  of  the  ordinary  perpetra- 
tors of  vice,  such  as  an  uneasy  conscience, 
stinging  remorse,  or  indeed  any  conscience  or 
remorse  at  all. 

But  MacDonald  had  another  series  of  tales  to 
tell  this  admiring  group  of  immoral  yet  brilliant 
men.  He  had  triumphs  of  the  wilderness  that 
they  envied  him — that  some  even  tried  to  imitate. 

The  fascination  of  the  human  game  to  be  found 
in  remote  places — girls  like  Annette  and  Hilda, 
who  had  the  slender  beauty  that  these  men 
worshipped,  who  had  the  pure-eyed,  pure-lipped 
innocence  that  was  the  great  incentive — was  as 
maddening  hasheesh  to  the  senses  of  these  de- 
spoilers. 

109 


THE    WOLF 

And  so  when  MacDonald  had  told  Jules  that, 
after  all,  it  was  quite  the  best  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  Annette  when  she  died  in  the 
blizzard,  wandering  mad  with  grief  and  shame, 
to  be  found  later  horribly  mutilated  by  wolves 
that  had  not  respected  the  white  pall  the  flying 
snow  had  swept  above  her,  he  fully  meant  it. 

All  that  he  regretted  was  that  her  youth  and 
beauty  were  gone  from  his  enjoyment  forever. 
Of  her  soul  he  never  evon  thought.  Of  her 
sufferings — well,  Jie  was  of  the  humble,  poor 
creatures  of  the  earth  whom  some  omniscient 
scheme  had  doomed  to  be  one  of  those  that  suffer. 

She  had  served  charmingly  to  replace  the 
absent  studio  parties.  He  was  grateful  for  a 
romance  of  the  pine-scented  forests,  after  the 
vitiating  orgies  of  the  romances  among  exotic 
perfumes. 

In  the  same  way  his  thoughts  now  turned  to 

Hilda.    That  her  father  guarded  her  with  an  ever- 
110 


THE    WOLF 

suspicious  eye  but  made  the  pursuit  more  inter- 
esting; that  the  girl  herself  was  innately  good 
and  would  have  to  be  won  by  the  most  consum- 
mate of  his  wiles  but  lent  fascination,  and  that 
the  young,  handsome,  brisk  Beaubien  was  his 
rival  but  added  zest  to  the  chase  and  lent  the 
sport  its  element  of  danger. 

When  MacDonald  contemplated  Jules  as  a 
factor  that  might  bring  an  ugly,  violent  chapter 
into  the  romance,  it  did  not  affect  his  purpose. 
Just  as  this  remarkable  man  combined  with  high 
intellectual  talents  a  brute's  ferocity  of  passion, 
so  also  he  had  the  bodily  strength  and  physical 
courage  of  a  brute. 

He  compared  his  depth  of  chest  and  width  of 
shoulders  with  the  lithe  muscularity  of  Beaubien, 
and  decided  that  in  the  event  of  a  struggle  the 
result  would  be  in  his  own  favor. 

Yet  he  did  not  very  seriously  figure  that  there 

would  be  any  such  outcome.    In  his  scheme  to 
111 


THE    WOLF 

possess  the  girl  he  would  act  quickly.  He  would, 
by  a  series  of  swift  events,  outgeneral  Beaubien, 
and  while  the  young  Canadian  was  left  wondering 
just  how  it  all  had  happened,  the  prize  of  Hilda's 
possession  would  be  his,  and  he  would  hurry 
with  her  to  New  York,  where  she  would  be  help- 
less, and  where,  innately  good  or  innately  bad, 
he  would  own  her.  Own  her  body.  As  for  her 
soul — MacDonald  smiled  to  himself.  If  there 
were  such  things  as  souls  her  soul  might  take 
care  of  itself. 

Of  the  arch  wickedness  of  the  subtle  scheme 
he  had  devised  to  make  the  girl  his  property  he 
thought  nothing  at  all  save  in  self -congratulation 
at  its  great  cleverness. 

The  very  morning  after  the  discovery  by 
Beaubien  that  MacDonald,  who  sought  Hilda's 
ruin,  was  none  other  than  the  betrayer  of  Annette 
and  the  man  whom  he  and  Baptiste  had  sworn  to 
kill,  MacDonald  had  lingered  behind  the  party 
112 


THE    WOLF 

as  it  set  out  from  the  house,  to  pour  new  allure- 
ments of  brilliant  talk  into  Hilda's  ears  regarding 
the  wonders  and  the  charms  of  the  great,  bright 
cities  far  beyond  the  dismal,  giant,  oppressive 
mountains. 

And  again  toward  evening  he  purposely  re- 
turned ahead  of  the  party  and  found  Hilda  as 
she  was  walking  back  to  the  house  from  the 
spring,  the  tin  pail  shimmering  in  the  sunset 
light  as  it  swung. 

MacDonald  laid  a  hand  gently  on  her  firm, 
round,  young  sun-crowned  arm. 

"Hilda,"  he  said,  with  his  fine  eyes  looking 
tenderly  at  her. 

"Yes?"  she  questioned,  her  red  lips  parting 
to  return  his  friendly  smile. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Why,"  she  laughed,  "that  is  rather  plainly 
to  be  seen — into  the  house  with  this  pail  of  water." 

"Put  it  down  a  minute,"  he  urged.    "There 
113 


THE    WOLF 

is  something  important  that  I  would  say  to  you." 

She  obeyed. 

"Have  you  thought  over  what  I  said  to  you 
this  morning?"  he  continued. 

"About  going  away?" 

"Yes." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  girl  earnestly,  as  she 
brushed  back  a  strand  of  glistening  golden  hair 
that  had  loosened  from  the  tight  combing  and 
was  flaunting  jauntily  in  the  sunlight.  "Oh, 
yes,  I  have  thought  it  all  over.  I  have  thought 
of  little  else,  Mr.  MacDonald — little  else  but  the 
wonderful  things  you  have  told  me  of  the  world 
that  is  to  be  found  beyond  the  hills." 

"You  have  thought  it  over  carefully, 
Hilda?" 

"Yes,  carefully." 

MacDonald  raised  his  hand  to  her  shoulder. 
He  regarded  her  with  a  fond  eye  for  the  graceful 
beauty  that  was  only  slightly  suggested  under 
114 


THE    WOLF 

the  lines  of  the  loose,  rough,  blue  serge  blouse 
and  skirt  that  she  wore. 

"Well,"  he  asked  at  the  end  of  this  survey, 
"what  is  your  decision?" 

The  girl  instinctively  turned  to  look  back  into 
the  brown  and  gold  forest,  whither  she  had  gone 
and  spent  an  hour  of  that  day  in  its  helpful 
solitude  in  prayer  for  guidance. 

"I — I  don't  know,"  she  said  to  MacDonald. 

"Why  'don't  know'?"  he  demanded,  some- 
what impatiently. 

The  girl  stared  at  her  clasped  hands.  Her 
brow  was  marked  with  thought,  but  her  thoughts 
were  flooding  confusedly  in  her  pretty  head. 

"Only  that,  Mr.  MacDonald;  just  I  don't 
know. " 

MacDonald  smiled  as  one  who  would  humor  a 
queer  child. 

"Well,  you  want  to  go,  don't  you?" 

"Yes;  yes,  I  want  to  go,"  she  replied  quickly. 
115 


THE    WOLF 

"And  certainly,"  he  said,  laughing  low  at  the 
thought,  "you  are  not  afraid  of  me." 

"No,"  said  the  girl  with  unexpected  quietness 
and  decision,  "I  am  not  afraid  of  you." 

"Well,  then,  little  Hilda,  what  makes  you 
hesitate?  You  say  you  want  to  go.  You  have 
told  me  that  your  life  here  is  utterly  unhappy. 
I  have  told  you  all  the  joy  and  knowledge  and 
beauty  that  are  to  be  found  where  I  am  willing 
to  take  you,  and  yet  when  I  ask  you  if  you  are 
ready  to  go,  you  can  only  answer  'I  don't 
know.'" 

"She  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  smile  was  an 
acknowledgment  that  his  impatience  was  not 
without  some  right  of  foundation. 

"Do  you  mean  to  go  soon?"  she  asked. 

"Quite  soon." 

"How?" 

"Do  you  mean  exactly  how  soon?" 

"No;    not  that,"  she  pursued.    "Quite  soon 
116 


THE    WOLF  % 

means  in  a  little  while.  But  what  I  mean  is  how 
—how  are  we  to  go?  " 

"I  don't  exactly  know  what  you  mean  by 
'how?'" 

"I  mean  are  we  going  to  run  away  at  night — 
run  away  at  night  and  have  people  talk?  You 
know  there  was  my  mother.  She  ran  away  at 
night  and  people  talked,  and  always  have  talked, 
and  my  father  curses  her  memory.  Is  it  going  to 
be  that  way  with  us?  " 

"And  if  it  were?"  demanded  MacDonald 
suddenly  and  boldly. 

Her  reply  came  as  directly  as  his  question. 
First  her  fingers  slipped  up  and  disengaged  the 
hand  that  had  put  a  fervent  pressure  on  her  arm. 

"Then  I  would  not  go,"  said  Hilda.  "It  is 
an  awful  thing  to  stay  here,  now  that  I  am  getting 
old  enough  to  know  and  to  understand.  But  if 
I  have  to  live  here  just  this  way  all  my  life,  I'll 
try  to  live  as  happily  as  I  can.  I  will  do  my 
117 


THE     WOLF 

best.  But,  Mr.  MacDonald,  I  would  never  run 
away.  I  would  never  do  that  and  have  my 
father  say  that  my  soul  was  black  and  that  I  was 
wicked." 

"I  had  not  meant  to  ask  you  to  do  that, 
Hilda,"  came  MacDonald's  voice  in  soft  remon- 
strance. "I  was  not  meaning  that  at  all.  But 
what,  Hilda,  if  your  father  should  say  all 
right?" 

Her  big,  clear  blue  eyes  lifted  to  meet  Mac- 
Donald's,  and  there  was  sheer  amazement  in 
them. 

"My  father  would  not  say  all  right,"  she  said 
positively. 

"I  am  asking  you,  Hilda,  what  if  he  does  say 
all  right?" 

"Ah,"  she  said  with  a  quick  smile,  "if  he  does 
say  all  right — if — " 

"Then  if  he  does  say  all  right — if  I  convince 

him  that  it  is  the  thing  for  you  to  do  and  for  me  to 
118 


THE    WOLF 

do  and  for  him  to  do — I  say  if  I  convince  him, 
Hilda,  what  would  you  say  then?" 

MacDonald  ended,  sure  of  the  reply  that 
would  fall  from  her  lips.  But  he  was  disappointed, 
for  Hilda,  looking  away  from  him  into  the  dense 
woods,  out  of  which  she  seemed  to  draw  inspira- 
tion for  her  thoughts,  said: 

"Still,  still,  I  don't  know.  But,  whether  I 
will  or  whether  I  won't,  father  must  know  every- 
thing. I  am  quite  decided  on  that." 

"So  am  I,"  MacDonald  assured  her.  "I  will 
see  him  to-day.  Only,  Hilda,  you  must  leave 
the  gaining  of  his  consent  to  me  entirely.  What- 
ever arrangement  I  make,  you  must  not  ask  him 
about  it.  He  seems  to  hate  you,  and  whatever 
he  might  be  willing  I  should  do  he  might  with- 
draw his  consent  if  he  saw  that  it  was  going  to 
make  you  very  happy." 

"I  never  ask  father  about  anything,"  said 
the  girl  with  calm  bitterness. 
119 


THE     WOLF 

"And  you  will  go — go  with  me  if  he  consents?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "But  you 
must  see  him.  " 

"That's  agreed,  little  Hilda.  Here  is  my  hand 
on  it.  " 

MacDonald  grasped  her  hand.  The  pressure 
was  so  warm  and  so  hard  that  it  alarmed  her. 
He  drew  her  toward  him,  but  from  this  she  openly 
shrank. 

Finally  he  released  her  hand.  She  hurried 
from  him,  regained  the  shining  pail  of  clear 
spring  water  and  made  her  way  as  quickly  as 
possible  into  the  house. 

MacDonald  sauntered  slowly  in  after  her. 
Confidence  was  written  plainly  in  ti.,  poise  of 
his  head,  the  throw-back  of  his  shoulders,  the 
steadiness  of  the  smile  on  his  viciously  marked 
mouth. 


120 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   UNEXPECTED 

At  dinner  that  night  MacDonald  showed  high 
spirits  and  brimming  good  nature,  and,  with  a 
view  to  furthering  his  own  plans,  he  recounted  at 
length,  in  the  hearing  of  old  McTavish,  some  of 
the  wonderful  works  of  engineering  that  he  had 
performed,  and  the  results  in  wealth  that  had 
accrued  to  hundreds  and  thousands  of  people 
through  opening  to  the  world's  markets  countless 
communities,  whose  produce  had  formerly  been 
pent  up  and  wasted  in  the  lonely  valleys  and 
mountains.  He  told  of  cities  that  had  grown 
because  of  the  magic  that  his  scientific  genius 
could  perform. 

McTavish,  whose  creed  was  that  gold  was  the 
most  precious  of  earthly  possessions,  listened 

until  excitement  over  what  he  had  heard,  and 
121 


THE    WOLF 

admiration  for  the  man  who  had  accomplished 
these  great  things,  caused  his  old  gray  eyes  to 
shine. 

MacDonald,  having  produced  the  effect  he 
sought,  repaired  to  the  main  room  of  the  house, 
which  had  been  given  over  to  him  as  an  office  and 
a  study. 

It  was  a  big  square  room;  the  walls  of  rough 
logs.  Here  and  there  were  crude  mottoes  and 
cruder  pictures.  The  antlers  of  moose  and  car- 
ibou were  over  the  doorways  and  the  two  large 
windows. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  was  a  large  table. 
Its  top  had  been  planed  and  smoothed  and 
polished,  but  its  thick  legs  still  bore  the  bark  of 
the  trees. 

MacDonald  was  seated  at  this  table. 

He  was  busily  figuring.  His  head  was  hand- 
some with  its  big,  broad  forehead  symbolizing 

mental  power.    He  sat  in  a  rude,  cane-bottomed 
122 


THE    WOLF 

chair.  Some  big,  unpainted  rockers  were  around 
the  room.  Bear  hides  served  for  mats  and  on  one 
side  of  the  wall  the  skin  of  a  huge  grizzly  was 
nailed,  a  proud  badge  of  McTavish's  prowess, 
despite  his  advanced  years. 

MacDonald,  absolutely  engrossed  in  his  work, 
had  not  noticed  that  young  Ferguson  was  watch- 
ing him  from  outside  one  of  the  windows.  Young 
Ferguson  was  looking  thoughtful  himself.  He 
knew  that  what  he  intended  to  do  in  the  next  few 
minutes  would  be  received  with  very  bad  grace 
by  his  employer. 

He  knew  that  MacDonald's  masterful  nature 
would  be  inclined  to  sweep  instantly  aside  any- 
thing that  promised  to  be  an  obstacle  to  his  plans, 
and  that  he,  Ferguson,  although  the  personal 
favorite  of  the  engineer — who  was  fond  of  the 
lad  for  his  humor  and  good  nature — might 
expect  to  be  treated  as  any  other  obstacle  the 

minute    he    put    himself    in    the  way  of   the 
123 


THE     WOLF 

engineer's     schemes,    romantic    or     otherwise. 

But  there  were  certain  old-fashioned  teachings 
that  were  strong  in  the  boy's  heart.  The  inno- 
cence of  woman  was  something  that  he  held 
sacred,  and  Hilda  was  so  absolutely  innocent, 
so  wholly  unspoiled!  Her  disposition  was  so 
sweet  that  even  her  father's  constant  harsh 
treatment  had  not  made  of  her  a  sullen  creature. 
Her  response  to  the  least  kindliness  was  as  pure 
and  sweet  as  the  opening  of  a  flower. 

Young  Ferguson  therefore  rapped  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe  and,  entering  the  house,  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  room  and  entered. 

"Hello,  governor,"  he  said  affably. 

"Hello,  Fergy,"  said  the  engineer  cordially. 

"What  are  you  doin'?"  asked  the  lad  with  a 
familiarity  that  MacDonald  had  long  ago  accorded 
him. 

"Working  on  these  maps,  kid.  By  the  way, 
I  expect  Anderson  and  the  rest  of  the  surveying 
124 


THE    WOLF 

party  up  here  to-morrow  or  the  next  day,  and 
when  they  come  you  can  go  with  them  to  the 
south,  to  run  the  new  line  from  the  fork  of  the 
Little  Bear  River." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  young 
Ferguson  asked  casually. 

"You  can  leave  me  here,"  said  MacDonald 
shortly. 

"What  do  you  want  to  stay  here  for?" 

At  this  query  from  Ferguson,  MacDonald 
looked  up  in  displeased  surprise. 

"I  said  you  could  leave  me  here,  I  guess  that's 
enough,  Ferguson." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Ferguson,  with  one  of  his 
disarming  smiles,  "if  that's  the  way  you  want  to 
look  at  it." 

MacDonald  didn't  thaw. 

"That's  just  the  way  I  want  to  look  at  it." 

The  tone  was  final.  It  was  intended  for  a 
dismissal.  The  engineer  returned  to  his  papers, 
125 


THE    WOLF 

with  an  open  demonstration  that  signified  that 
the  interview  was  ended. 

But  Ferguson  lingered.  He  filled  his  pipe 
and  lighted  it.  After  a  few  puffs,  he  said: 

"Governor!" 

"Well?" 

"Been  working  for  you  for  five  years,  haven't 
I?" 

"That  long?" 

"Yep." 

"Well,  you're  still  young.  What's  worrying 
you?" 

"Never  got  on  very  well,  did  I?" 

"You  never  tried  very  hard,  Fergy,"  said 
MacDonald,  kindly. 

"Perhaps  not.  There  were  a  lot  of  things 
that  I  might  have  done  and  didn't."  Suddenly 
Ferguson  straightened  up  and  said  vehemently, 
"And  won't!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 
126 


THE    WOLF 

"Well,"  answered  Ferguson,  with  a  perceptible 
brace  of  his  shoulders,  "I  guess  your  business  is 
your  business  all  right,  governor,  but  you  put 
through  a  lot  of  deals,  with  the  help  of  other 
people,  that  I  can't  stand  for,  never  could,  and 
never  could  bring  myself  to  do." 

MacDonald  frowned. 

"You  said  my  business  was  my  business, 
didn't  you?"  he  asked,  curtly  and  forbiddingly. 

"Exactly." 

"Well,  then,  I  guess  you'd  better  leave  it 
right  there,  Ferguson." 

"I  always  managed  to  do  that — before.  I 
don't  know  how  valuable  a  man  I  am  to  you  in  a 
business  way,  governor.  You've  always  trailed 
me  along  because  I  happen  to  be  a  rather  light- 
hearted  sort  of  an  Indian,  liable  to  start  a  little 
fun  when  things  are  monotonous.  As  an  engineer 
I'm  somewhat  of  a  dub — what." 

"No  one  ever  accused  you  of  scintillating, 
127 


THE     WOLF 

Ferguson,  but  we've  got  along  pretty  well.  I 
like  to  have  you  with  me,  and  you've  always  had 
the  redeeming  quality  of  minding  your  own 
business.  That's  an  unusual  virtue,  my  boy. 
It  is  your  one  great  asset.  Hang  on  to  it." 

Ferguson  shook  his  head. 

"That's  the  trouble,  governor." 

"What?" 

"It's  slipping." 

"What's  slipping?" 

"My  asset." 

MacDonald  finally  cast  aside  his  papers  and 
stood  up. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Ferguson?" 

"Well,  governor,  I  find  myself  with  a  keen 
temptation  to  mind  somebody  else's  business. 
In  fact,  I've  committed  myself." 

"Whose  business?" 

"Yours." 

"About  what?"  frowned  MacDonald. 
128 


THE    WOLF 

"The  girl— Hilda,"  said  the  lad. 

"In  love?" 

"No;  in  earnest." 

A  sneer  crept  across  MacDonald's  lips. 

"Going  to  be  a  hero?" 

"No;  going  to  try  to  be  a  white  man." 

"I  wonder  if  you've  let  it  slip  out  of  your  mind 
in  this  business,  Ferguson,  that  you  are  working 
for  me?  If  I  were  you  I  wouldn't." 

"No,"  replied  the  boy  doggedly;  "I've  added 
all  that  up,  governor — the  job,  the  money,  and 
what  it  might  cost  if  I  butt  in — and  still,  still 
I've  got  a  yearning  instinct  in  my  heart  that  tells 
me  I'm  going  to  lose  that  asset  of  mine — that 
asset  of  mine  that  you  say  is  the  most  valuable 
thing  about  me.  Yes,  I  feel  that  I'm  apt  to  lose 
that  asset." 

MacDonald  stared  at  the  boy.  Here  was  an 
unexpected  factor — a  source  of  annoyance  that 

he  had  not  counted  upon.    Of  course,  it  would  be 
129 


THE    WOLF 

absurd  to  think  that  Ferguson,  slip  of  an  irrespon- 
sible lad  that  he  was,  could  really  do  any  decisive 
thing  that  might  spoil  his  scheme  for  possessing 
himself  of  Hilda.  But  the  incident  was  unex- 
pected, and  MacDonald  would  rather  have 
Ferguson  for  a  friend. 

To  a  man  of  MacDonald's  nature  it  is  disagree- 
able to  have  anybody  voluntarily  leave  associa- 
tion with  him.  It  hurt  his  vanity  to  think  that 
with  his  fame  and  magnetism  and  wealth  any  one 
should  voluntarily  withdraw  from  the  privilege 
of  this  association. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Fergy,"  he  said  in  a  somewhat 
conciliatory  voice.  "  I  hate  to  see  you  go  wrong. 
A  lot  of  men  in  their  time  have  tried  to  interfere 
in  my  business  and  it  didn't  get  them  much- 
bigger  men  than  you,  Fergy;  and  I  guess  you 
know  I'm  throwing  no  bluffs  about  that.  I 
always  get  what  I  go  after,"  he  continued,  with 
an  eye  set  steadily  upon  the  face  of  Ferguson; 
130 


THE    WOLF 

"always,  one  way  or  another.    And  I'm  going  to 
do  that  all  my  life,  my  boy." 

Ferguson  returned  the  deliberate  stare.  He 
said  slowly,  but  with  great  underlying  earnest- 
ness: 

"I've  never  been  able  to  quite  figure  you  out, 
governor.  Most  of  the  time  you  have  been 
almost  white,  but  some  of  the  time  you  have 
been  as  black  as  night.  I  never  mixed  up  with 
you  in  New  York  when  you  pulled  off  those 
parties  and  drunks  with  some  of  your  select 
friends.  Girls  of  that  kind  never  get  to  me  very 
strong.  I've  always  had,  somewhere  in  my  sys- 
tem, a  streak  of  decency  that  calls  my  bluff 
every  time  I  try  to  be  rotten.  I  guess  that's  my 
mother's  personality  playing  hard  for  me  to 
win  when  I  backslide." 

The  old  3neer  came  to  MacDonald's  bad  mouth. 

"Is  this  a  sermon,  Ferguson?" 

"No,  not  a  sermon.     Just  a  quiet  tip." 
131 


THE    WOLF 

"Give  it  to  me,"  said  MacDonald,  with  an 
effort  at  toleration. 

"Don't  you  break  Hilda's  heart,"  said  the  boy 
quickly  and  with  an  energy  that  made  his  words 
snap.  "And  don't  you  try  to  turn  any  funny 
tricks,  governor,  because  on  the  square,  you 
can't  get  away  with  it." 

MacDonald  laughed  ill-naturedly. 

"You're  willing  to  be  the  little  boy  who  is 
coming  in  at  the  critical  moment  to  say,  'Ha! 
unhand  her,  villain!' — eh?" 

"No,I'm  not.  Although  at  a  show-down  I'd 
help." 

"Who  is  going  to  be  the  man,  then?" 

"Jules  Beaubien." 

"What  about  him?"  said  MacDonald,  and 
there  was  a  noticeable  slackening  of  the  scorn- 
fulness  in  his  voice 

"He's  on." 

"Jealous?" 

132 


THE    WOLF 

"Call  it  what  you  want,  governor.  But  the 
first  time  you  make  a  wrong  move,  you're  going 
to  get  it  from  him,  and  you  are  going  to  get  it 
good." 

"What  can  he  do?" 

"Just  wipe  you  out  of  existence  with  as  much 
compunction  as  I'd  snap  a  straw." 

With  a  gesture  of  impatience,  the  engineer 
exclaimed: 

"Ferguson,  you're  funny!  This  Frenchman 
is  in  the  same  boat  that  I  am.  The  only  differ- 
ence is  that  so  far  I've  got  the  best  of  it,  and  he 
knows  it.  Don't  get  nervous  about  me,  young 
man.  You  are  a  little  too  young  to  be  giving 
me  advice.  Just  go  right  on  minding  your  own 
business,  and  that  asset  of  yours  will  become 
more  valuable  every  year." 

"All  right;  all  right,"  said  the  boy.  "But 
just  remember  that  I've  tipped  you,  and — another 

thing.    I  want  to  be  open  with  you,  governor. 
133 


THE     WOLF 

If  a  show-down  comes  off — well,  I've  declared 
myself  with  the  Frenchman  and  his  end  of  the 
game,  job  or  no  job.  That's  flat." 

MacDonald  raised  his  big  head  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"You  re  a  sentimental  ass,  Ferguson." 

His  declaration  made  all  Ferguson's  old 
boyish  irresponsibility  of  demeanor  instantly 
return. 

"That's  got  a  damned  fool  beat,"  he  laughed, 
"and  let  it  go  at  that." 


134 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  DUPE 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door  of  the  big  room 
and  the  shock-haired  head  of  McTavish  looked 
inside.  Indignation  mantled  in  the  rugged  old 
countenance  #t  sight  of  young  Ferguson,  but 
seeing  that  MacDonald  was  also  there,  McTavish 
entered. 

"Hello!"  said  the  gay  Ferguson.  "There's 
the  old  Bonnie  Briar  Bush  with  his  little  bunch 
of  Scotch  heather." 

"Meester  MacDonald,"  exploded  the  Scot, 
"I  will  nae  stand  the  impudence  o'  this  young 
mon!" 

"All  right,  old  Santa  Glaus,"  laughed  Ferguson. 

' '  Santa  Glaus  again ! ' '  roared  McTavish .  ' '  Got 
o'  me  house  wi'  ye!" 

Ferguson  hurried  to  the  door  and  bowed. 
135 


THE    WOLF 

"At  once — but  back  at  supper  time,  Roderick 
Dhu." 

"Meester  MacDonald,  if  ye  do  not  stop  that 
young  deevil —  " 

"Ferguson,"  cut  in  the  engineer,  "you'll  have 
to  drop  that  sort  of  thing.  Understand  ?" 

"Oh,  all  right,  governor."  In  the  same  breath, 
however,  he  said  to  McTavish:  "  Don't  you  care, 
King  Jamie.  When  you  and  I  and  Sir  Walter 
Scott  and  Bobby  Burns  meet  in  Edinburgh  next 
summer,  what  a  great  time  we'll  have." 

"Awa'  wi'  ye!"  stormed  the  old  man. 

"I'll  buy  you  a  drink  and  stake  you  to  a  bar- 
ber," said  Ferguson,  politely. 

"Ferguson,  drop  it,"  commanded  MacDonald, 
who  little  wanted  the  ruffling  of  McTavish 's 
disposition  at  this  juncture  in  his  schemes. 

"All  right,  governor.    So  long,"  said  the  boy, 
and  bowed  himself  out  of  the  room  with  a  madden- 
ing grin  at  the  hard  old  woodsman. 
136 


THE     WOLF 

McTavish  struggled  to  regain  his  composure. 
When  he  had  done  so,  he  said : 

"Meester  MacDonald,  I  respect  yourseF  and 
yer  poseetion,  but  I  canna'  stand  the  impudence 
o'  the  young  jackanapes.  He'll  drive  me  mad 
wi'  his  insults." 

"You  mustn't  mind  him,  Mr.  McTavish," 
spoke  MacDonald  sympathetically.  "He  doesn't 
mean  anything — really.  If  you  paid  no  attention 
to  him  he'd  soon  stop.  But  I'll  speak  to  him 
when  he  comes  back;  you  may  depend  upon  it." 

"If  he  dinna  stop  he  canna'  stay  in  me  hoose. 
He's  past  all  patience." 

"I'll  have  him  stopped.   I  promise  you  that." 

"Ye're  a  guid  mon,  Mr.  MacDonald,  and  I'll 
tak'  yer  word.  I  canna  hae  nae  mon  makin' 
jokes  o'  me  before  me  ain  flesh  an'  blood, 
worthless  as  she  is." 

"You  mean  Hilda?" 

'Who  else  could  I  mean  but  Hilda?" 
137 


THE    WOLF 

Who  else,  indeed?  MacDonald  had  deliber- 
ately seized  the  opportunity  to  bring  the  name 
of  the  girl  into  his  talk. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  And  then,  quite  slowly  and 
earnestly,  "I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you  about 
her  sometime,  Mr.  McTavish." 

"She  nae  worthy  o'  discussion,  Meester 
MacDonald.  She  and  her  mither  hae  been  the 
blight  o'  me  life." 

"I'm  sorry,  sir.  But  now — just  now — I  want 
to  talk  some  business  to  you,  and  afterwards— 
afterwards,  I  really  have  something  serious  to 
propose  to  you  regarding  Hilda.  But  first  the 
business." 

"Business?" 

"Why,  yes,  Mr.  McTavish.  I  can  show  you 
how  you  can  make  a  lot  of  money.  You  might 
as  well  get  it  as  anybody  else.  I  wouldn't  have 
the  time  to  take  advantage  of  the  chance  myself, 
and  you've  won  my  friendship,  Mr.  McTavish." 
138 


THE    WOLF 

"That's  guid  o'  ye.  And  it's  guid  to  get  a 
chance  to  make  money,"  answered  the  Scot, 
cordially  and  eagerly.  "I  hae  some  money. 
Meester  MacDonald,  but  a  mon  is  no  mon  who 
does  nae  want  more." 

The  engineer  walked  over  to  the  table  and 
selected  one  of  the  blue  maps.  He  handed  it 
to  the  old  man. 

"You  see  this  rough  sketch?" 

"I  do." 

"You  know  what  it  is?" 

"Aye— what  is  it?" 

"A  map." 

"I  ken  thot,  mon,  but  the  world  is  large  and 
there  are  many  maps.  What's  this?" 

"Well,  now,  I  know  you  are  a  little  skeptical 
about  this  railroad,  Mr.  McTavish." 

"  'Tis  a  fool's  dream,"  said  the  old  man 
bluntly. 

"Hardly,"  observed  MacDonald,  with  a  dignity 
139 


THE     WOLF 

that  he  knew  how  to  make  impressive,  "unless 
you  put  me  down  for  a  fool." 

"Nae,  nae,"  McTavish  hastened  to  reply. 
"Ye're  a  shrewd  mon,  Meester  MacDonald,  and 
a  guid  one,  and  what  ye  say  I'll  believe,  though 
'tis  hard  to  credit  that  ye'll  be  able  to  put  the 
railroad  through  all  this  wilderness  o'  mountains." 

The  engineer  went  over  to  the  old  man,  took 
the  map  from  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 
With  a  pencil  to  make  indications  on  the  drawn 
plan,  he  said : 

"Well,  see  here.  There's  the  fork  of  the 
Little  Bear  River.  You  know  the  country,  do 
you  not?" 

"As  I  do  mesel',  and  even  better." 

"How  better?" 

"The  country  nae  changes,  and  sometimes  the 
Scotch  do.  'Tis  their  difference  from  the  Swedes." 

"You  don't  seem  to  like  Swedes?"  observed 

MacDonald. 

140 


THE    WOLF 

"I  dinna'  like  Swedes  wi'  their  yellow  hair 
any  more  than  I  like  porcupines  wi'  their  stingin' 
quills.  I  hae  one  in  me  own  family." 

MacDonald  could  not  resist  the  temptation. 

"  What — porcupines?  " 

"Nae,  mon,"  answered  McTavish,  all  seriously, 
"a  Swede — Hilda,  the  guid-fer-nothing  girl. 
But  I'd  as  soon  nestle  a  porcupine  to  me  breast." 
McTavish  glowered.  "Well — gang  alang  wi'  the 
business  ye  were  tellin'  me  aboot." 

MacDonald  laid  his  pencil  point  on  the  map 
again. 

"This  railroad  that  you  are  so  doubtful  about 
is  sure  to  be  built  up  to  this  point — understand." 

"Aye." 

"The  money  is  ready;  the  success  assured. 
It  may  be  one,  two  or  three  years,  and  even 
four,  but  sooner  or  later  it's  bound  to  come." 

"Aye,  lad — ye  seem  to  be  speakin'  the  truth?" 

MacDonald  ran  his  pencil  along  the  map. 
141 


THE    WOLF 

"That  land  at  the  fork  of  the  river  is  free  from 
timber." 

"As  bare  as  the  palm  o'  me  hand." 
"Can  you  get  that  land  and  file  a  deed?" 
"I  dinna  ken  why  I  should  do  that." 
"If  I  show  you  the  way  and  how,  will  you  do 
it?" 

"For  what  reason?" 

"When  the  road  goes  through,  the  possession 

of  that  land  will  make  you  a  rich  man." 

McTavish  looked  at  him  with  liveliest  curiosity. 

"Aye,  lad,  aye.     Tell  me  aboot  it." 

"Well,  can't  you  see  for  yourself?    The  land 

isn't  worth  a  dollar  a  square  mile  now,  but  with 

the  road  it  will  be  immensely  valuable.     I  expect 

this  project  to  make  you  very,  very  rich.     I  just 

want  to  show  you  that  I  appreciate  your  kindness 

and  hospitality,  and  I'm  going  to  let  you  in  on 

the  deal.    Then  you  will  have  a  lot  of  money." 

"How  much,  laddie,  how  much?" 
142 


THE  WOLF 

The  Scot's  old  heart  was  beginning  to  beat 
very  fast. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  exactly.  Maybe  a  couple 
of  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

McTavish  half  leaped  from  his  chair. 

"Twa  hoondred  thousand  dollars!"  he  cried, 
and  sank  back  in  his  seat. 

"That  much  anyway — certainly — and  maybe 
more." 

McTavish  gripped  his  chair  and  narrowed 
his  eyes.  He  swallowed  a  big  lump  in  his 
throat. 

"Ye're  not  makin'  jokes  wi'  me,  like  the 
young  jackanapes  who  calls  me  King  Jamie  and 
Santa  Glaus?"  he  demanded. 

"Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  McTavish.  I,  sir,  have 
proper  respect  for  white  hairs,  and  am  really  a 
friend  of  yours.  Will  you  accept  it?  " 

McTavish  arose  and  laid  his  big,  rough  hand 
on  the  table. 

143 


THE    WOLF 

"I  weel,  mon,"  he  said  slowly,  adding,  "  'Tis 
me  dooty  as  a  Scotchmen." 

"Then  that's  settled,  and  there's  my  hand." 

McTavish  took  the  hand  eagerly. 

MacDonald  had  angled  his  bait  skilfully,  and 
the  mercenary  McTavish  grew  almost  senile  in 
his  emotion  of  gratitude,  as  he  clasped  hands 
with  the  man  who  had  promised  to  make  him 
wealthy  beyond  any  dream  that  he  had  ever  had. 

"Meester  MacDonald,  ye're  a  guid  mon  and  a 
wise  one,"  he  said,  with  a  voice  that  was  unsteady. 
"When  ye  came  to  my  hoose  I  had  a  mind  to 
drive  ye  awa'  to  save  ye  from  the  yellow  hair  and 
black  heart  o'  the  girl  Hilda.  'Twas  her  mither's 
aim  to  lure  men  to  destruction,  and  the  girl  has 
the  signs  o'  inheriting  it.  But  ye're  a  sensible 
mon,  and  nae  woman  can  wreck  yer  life.  I 
hae  nae  fear  for  the  young  jackanapes.  The 
Lord  knows  his  head  is  as  empty  as  his 

stomach." 

144 


THE     WOLF 

McTavish  released  the  hand  of  MacDonald 
slowly.  And  MacDonald,  as  the  old  man  turned 
away  and  sought  the  comfort  of  a  big  rocker 
stole  a  glance  at  the  huge,  age-bent  figure,  and 
for  an  instant  indulged  himself  to  the  extent  of 
allowing  a  smile  to  steal  across  his  lips. 

Such  moments  as  these,  when  his  wiles  carried 
him  to  a  triumph  of  deception,  were  enjoyable 
to  the  conscienceless  engineer.  He  decided  that 
now  was  the  psychological  time  to  successfully 
fix  the  trap  for  the  capture  of  Hilda,  the  chosen 
victim  of  his  evil  desires. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  Hilda," 
said  MacDonald  in  a  low,  friendly  voice.  He 
walked  over  to  the  big  rocker  and  stood  behind 
McTavish's  chair.  In  this  position  his  back  was 
towards  the  two  big  windows  that  faced  out  upon 
the  forest,  with  the  silver  river  below  the  slope. 

And  so  it  happened  that  words  that  he  intended 
solely  for  the  ears  of  McTavish  were  heard  by 
145 


THE    WOLF 

other  ears.  So  it  happened  that  Jules  Beaubien, 
with  cold  eyes  of  hatred,  stood  at  the  window 
sill  and  came  to  a  realization  of  a  deeper,  more 
cunning  villainy  in  the  nature  of  the  engineer 
than  even  he  had  suspected. 

Jules  and  Baptiste,  sauntering  in  front  of  the 
house,  had  their  attention  attracted  to  the  inte- 
rior of  the  lighted  room  and  saw  there  MacDonald 
and  McTavish  in  attitudes  that  bespoke  the 
happening  of  something  important. 

Baptiste  impulsively  brought  his  rifle  down 
from  his  shoulder.  Jules  frowned  and  motioned 
his  displeasure,  and  Baptiste  replaced  the  weapon 
as  he  had  been  carrying  it  before. 

Beaubien  followed  that  with  a  gesture  of 
dismissal  that  sent  Baptiste  to  the  pine  tree  seat 
to  smoke  his  pipe  in  a  sullen  silence,  and  to  dream 
of  the  sweetness  of  a  revenge  that  would  find 
himself  and  MacDonald  in  mortal  combat. 

At  the  window  sill  Jules,  left  alone,  hesitated 
146 


THE    WOLF 

for  an  instant,  but  finally,  with  a  tightening  of 
his  lips  and  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  he  moved 
quickly  and  silently  forward  and  leaned  his  head 
partly  over  the  sill.  In  the  cause  of  saving  the 
girl  he  loved  he  frankly  decided  to  play  eaves- 
dropper. 

"Ye  want  to  talk  to  me  o'  Hilda?"  he  heard 
McTavish  ask.  "What  hae  ye  to  say  o'  the  girl? 
Be  brief  and,"  added  the  old  man  with  a  ferocious 
frown,  "if  she's  been  misconducting  hersel',  dinna 
protect  her,  but  gie  me  the  truth." 

MacDonald  moved  forward  and  turned  slightly 
so  that  he  might  fully  study  the  profile  of  Mc- 
Tavish, whereas  the  old  man  would  have  little 
opportunity  to  look  into  the  countenance  of  his 
companion. 

"What  are  your  plans  for  her,  Mr.  McTavish?" 
The  tone  was  gentle,  kindly  and  betokened  a 
half -paternal  interest  in  the  future  of  the  girl 
herself. 

147 


THE    WOLF 

"I  hae  nae  plans  for  her,  Mr.  MacDonald," 
answered  the  Scot,  still  frowning.  "Ye  dinna 
ken  the  grief  o'  a  faither's  heart.  Since  the  day 
she  came  from  her  mither,  with  the  curse  o'  her 
yellow  hair,  she's  been  a  burden  to  me  soul.  It's 
been  the  one  thought  o'  me  life  to  save  her  from 
eternal  damnation.  But  now  she's  twenty-one, 
and — and — the  deevil  may  take  her  any  time." 

MacDonald  nodded  sympathetically. 

"I  know  how  you  must  feel.  I  know  just 
how  you  feel,  Mr.  McTavish."  He  laid  his  hand 
on  the  old  man's  shoulder.  "But  in  the  case  of 
Hilda,  I  think,  sir,  I  can  find  a  way  for  you  out 
of  your  trouble." 

"Take  care,  mon,"  replied  the  Scot,  "that 
ye  come  not  yersel'  under  the  spell  o'  Hilda." 

MacDonald  smiled  and  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"No  chance  of  that,  Mr.  McTavish.  I'm 
— well — I'm  too  sensible.  I'm  an  American, 

but  my  mother  came  from  Scotland." 
148 


THE    WOLF 

It  was  a  neat  stroke.  It  drew  McTavish  even 
closer. 

"That's  guid;  that's  guid,"  said  the  old  Scot, 
with  nods  of  his  hoary  head.  "Ye're  too  fine  a 
mon  not  to  be  soom  Scotch." 

"Hilda  is  up  here  alone  with  you,  and,  as  you 
say,  she's  twenty-one.  The  railroad  will  soon  be 
up  here,  and  there  will  be  many  men.  Either 
you  will  have  to  move  far  up  North,  give  up  this 
home  you've  had  for  so  many  years,  or  Hilda 
will  be  placed  in  the  way  of  temptation." 

"True  for  ye.    And  I  dinna  trust  her." 

"How  long  is  it  since  you've  been  to  the  cities 
or  the  States?  "  asked  MacDonald. 

"A  score  o'  years." 

"I  am  not  a  young  man,  Mr.  McTavish.  Old 
enough  to  be  a  father,  but  I've  never  married." 

"  'Tis  a  sensible  head  ye  hae  on  yer  shoul- 
ders." 

"I  have  no  brothers  or  sisters,"  continued  the 
149 


THE    WOLF 

engineer,  "none  in  the  world  but  a  fine  old  Scotch 
mother  in  New  York.  She's  just  such  a  woman 
as  you  are  a  man,  and  with  the  same  ideas." 

"Thin  she  must  be  Scotch,"  said  the  old  man, 
approvingly. 

"And  now  you  say  that  Hilda,  after  all  your 
years  of  training,  is  in  danger.  I  agree  with  you. 
My  mother  is  a  devout  member  of  the  church, 
and  in  her  old  age  nothing  would  please  her  more 
than  to  save  a  soul  like  Hilda's  and  cheat  the 
devil,"  pursued  MacDonald,  his  rich  voice 
sounding  very  sincere  and  earnest  and  rev- 
erent. 

"She's  a  guid  woman.  My  mither  was  the 
same.  Some  weemen  are  guid,"  grudgingly 
admitted  McTavish,  only  to  add  immediately, 
"but  not  many — not  many." 

"When  the  railroad  comes  here  you  will  be 
busy  making  money,"  resumed  the  engineer. 
"You  will  move  down  to  your  land  and  you  will 
150 


THE    WOLF 

have  your  business  to  attend  to.    You  can't 
watch  Hilda  then  all  the  time." 

"True  for  ye.  'Twill  gi'  the  deevil  a  chance. 
But  a  mon  should  get  rich.  He  should;  should 
he  not?" 

"Of  course.  Well,  now,  Mr.  McTavish,  having 
thought  of  my  good  old  mother  and  of  Hilda's 
soul,  it  has  come  to  my  mind  that  my  mother 
could  devote  every  minute  of  her  time  to  Hilda. 
It  would  be  a  holy  work,  and  my  dear  mother 
would  like  it.  Why  not,  Mr.  McTavish — " 
MacDonald's  hand  pressed  heavily  and  warmly 
on  the  bent  shoulders  of  Hilda's  father — "why 
not  let  Hilda  come  with  me  to  my  home  and  there 
my  mother  could  complete  the  work  that  you 
have  carried  on  so  well  up  to  the  present  time?" 

McTavish   studied   the   knuckles   of  his  big, 
gaunt  hands.    He  wagged  his  head. 

"Tak'  care,  mon,  ye  dinna  bring  a  wanton 
under  yer  roof." 

151 


THE    WOLF 

"I  realize  all  that,"  agreed  MacDonald,  "but 
you  have  done  your  full  duty.  You  have  buried 
yourself  in  the  wilderness  for  twenty  years.  You 
have  brought  up  Hilda  according  to  your  belief 
and  system.  In  your  old  age  you  should  have 
some  of  the  pleasures  of  life.  As  soon  as  the 
railroad  is  built  you  will  have  a  great  deal  of 
money.  You  could  come  and  visit  us  and  see 
Hilda,  and  then  you  could  go  back  to  Scotland 
and  go  over  all  your  early  days." 

This  was  the  master  stroke.  None  is  so 
canny  as  the  Scot.  None  possesses  so  deeply 
fibered  the  love  of  native  land.  Back  of  hard 
shells,  of  mercenary  hearts,  even  a  Scot  forever 
preserves  soft  places  of  sentiment  for  the  old 
folks  at  home. 

"Back    to     Scotland — back    to    Scotland," 

murmured    the    old   man,    and    the    hardness 

of    his   face    softened    until   there  was    actual 

tenderness   there.     "Back   to    Scotland!     Ah, 

152 


THE    WOLF 

'twould   be   grand,  mon,    'twould   be   grand!" 

"You'd  like  it,  eh?"  said  MacDonald,  keeping 
the  tone  of  his  voice  in  harmony  with  the  old 
man's  tenor  of  thought. 

"Mon,"  almost  sobbed  McTavish,  "I've  dreamt 
o'  Scotland  these  twenty  years.  I've  dreamt  o' 
it  in  the  long  cold  nights  o'  the  winter,  and  under 
the  pines  in  the  summer  time  the  wind  has  sung 
her  sweet,  dear  ballads.  I  hae  nae  closed  me 
eyes  but  I've  seen  the  Highlands  wi'  their  sheep 
and  heather,  and  me  heart's  near  cracked  at 
the  thought  o'  me  bonnie  land.  Scotland,  mon! 
"Pis  the  thought  o'  her  that's  kept  the  life  in  me 
body  these  long,  lonely  years." 

The  old  gray  eyes,  that  characteristically 
were  cold  or  glittering  with  hatred  of  wrongs 
morosely  cuddled  in  a  narrow  mind,  were  wet 
now  with  tears. 

"Then  it's  time  you  went  back,"  said  Mac- 
Donald,  his  hand  still  on  the  old  man's  shoulder, 
153 


THE    WOLF 

"time  you  went  back.  And  this  is  the  only  way. 
It  is  your  duty  as  far  as  Hilda's  concerned.  You 
must  realize  that." 

McTavish  arose.    He  faced  MacDonald. 

"An'  ye'll  take  Hilda  to  yer  mither,  an'  ye'll 
keep  her  from  the  weeman  who  bore  her  an' 
watch  her  soul  as  ye  would  yer  ain  sister,  an' 
went  to  hell?" 

"I'll  do  all  that,  Mr.  McTavish,"  returned 
the  other  man  solemnly.  "I've  been  a  little 
careless  in  my  duties  to  the  church,  and  the  time 
has  come  in  my  life  when  I  feel  that  I  should  do 
something  to  make  up  for  my  neglect.  This 
opportunity  seems  to  have  been  sent  to  me. 
Why,  one  almost  might  say  it  had  been  sent  to 
me  from  heaven.  Here  is  my  hand,  McTavish, 
and  here  is  my  word.  It  is  your  duty.  It  is  my 
duty.  Will  you  do  it?" 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  consummate 
than  the  assumption  of  candor  and  sympathy  and 
154 


THE    WOLF 

noble  purpose  on  the  countenance  of  MacDonald. 
Eagerly,  completely  charmed,  the  Scot  made 
reply: 

"I  will,  sir;  God  bless  ye,  I  will." 

With  hands  together  they  were  standing, 
when  MacDonald  suddenly  drew  away. 

"Some  one  is  smoking  a  cigarette,"  he  said 
hastily. 

Turning  his  head,  he  beheld  Beaubien,  hie 
elbow  on  the  sill  and  the  smoke  rising  in  a  slender 
spiral  from  the  cigarette  between  his  slender 
fingers. 

For  several  seconds  the  men  eyed  each  other 
with  an  intense,  unblinking  stare. 


155 


CHAPTER  X 
"STAND  ON  YOUR  FEET  AND  FIGHT" 

The  sight  of  Jules  looking  in  at  the  window, 
the  smoke  of  the  tell-tale  cigarette  rising  from 
his  fingers,  and  the  realization  that  came  to 
MacDonald  that  the  young  Canadian  had  prob- 
ably been  there  for  some  time  and  had  heard  in 
its  entirety  the  elaborate  scheme  of  deception  for 
which  old  McTavish  had  fallen  so  easy  and 
fully  a  victim  caused  the  engineer's  eye  to 
flash  in  anger. 

But  he  realized  that  this  was  no  time  for  an 
open  rupture  with  Beaubien,  so  he  forced  down 
his  anger  and  his  countenance  slowly  assumed  an 
expression  of  good-humored  toleration  and  amuse- 
ment as  he  regarded  Jules. 

Young   Beaubien   tossed   away   his   cigarette 
and  returned  the  smile  significantly — with  what 
156 


THE    WOLF 

dqjch   of   significance,    MacDonald,    of   course, 
was  not  able  to  read. 

It  was  old  McTavish  who  first  spoke.  The 
excitement  caused  by  MacDonald's  propositions 
— by  which  he  was  to  be  made  a  wealthy  man 
and  Hilda  taken  care  of  by  a  religious  Scotch 
woman,  while  he  should  be  given  an  opportunity 
to  realize  his  dearest  hope,  returning  to  Scotland 
to  pass  his  last  days — still  had  possession  of  the 
old  man. 

"Jules,  hae  ye  been  there  long?"  he  asked. 

"Some  time,  M'sieur  M'Tavish,"  answered 
Beaubien.  And  he  looked  again  at  MacDonald. 

"And  ye  heard?" 

"Some  things,  M'sieur  McTavish." 

The  old  man  lumbered  over  to  the  window, 
waving  his  big  arm. 

"Mon,  mon!"  he  cried.    "Meester  MacDonald 
hae  found  a  way  for  the  salvation  o'  Hilda  an'  the 
means  o'  me  goin'  to  Scotland  before  I  dee." 
157 


THE    WOLF 

"Oui,  M'sieur  McTavish,"  said  Jules,  smiling. 

"He's  to  tak'  Hilda  to  his  mither's,  who's 
Scotch,"  went  on  the  old  man,  garrulous  in  his 
happiness,  "and  who's  to  bring  her  up  accordin' 
to  God  and  the  Presbyterian  Church.  And  he's 
doon  more — he's  to  mak'  me  rich.  Jules,  Mees- 
ter  MacDonald  that  you  see  here,  he  is  a  guid 
mon,  Jules,  a  guid  mon." 

McTavish  passed  his  big  fingers  through  his 
shock  of  yellowish  white  hair  and  turned  toward 
MacDonald. 

The  engineer  had  walked  about  the  room  a 
little  uneasily.  He  had  read  plainly  in  the  eyes 
of  Beaubien  how  thoroughly  his  deception  was 
understood  in  that  quarter.  He  was  anxious  to 
get  the  old  man  away. 

"I'll  be  sendin'  the  girl  to  ye  this  minit," 
said  McTavish  to  him  earnestly,  "an'  ye  can  tell 
her  yersel*  o'  this  grand  plan  ye  hae  for  her  an' 
me." 


THE    WOLF 

"All  right,  I'll  be  here,"  answered  MacDonald. 

The  Scot  walked  toward  the  door  leading  to 
the  other  rooms  of  the  big  log  house  of  the 
forest,  and  there  he  turned  and  admonished  the 
engineer. 

"Dinna  be  too  gentle  wi'  her,  lest  she  mistake 
her  dooty  to  yer  guid  mlther." 

He  left  the  room. 

MacDonald  looked  quickly  back  to  where  Jules 
stood  in  the  window.  He  smiled  broadly  at  the 
Canadian. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  he  asked. 

"Merci,"  replied  Jules,  and  passing  out  of 
sight  of  the  window  he  soon  presented  himself 
at  the  door  of  the  room  and  entered. 

MacDonald  seated  himself  at  the  table. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  to  Jules. 

"I  like  best  to  stand." 

MacDonald  frowned. 

"You  were  listening?"  he  demanded. 
159 


THE    WOLF 

"That  is  true,"  said  Beaubien  easily. 

"In  my  country,"  said  the  older  man,  "they 
call  that  eavesdropping." 

Beaubien  did  not  wince. 

"It  is  the  same  by  any  other  name,"  he  admit- 
ted calmly. 

"Do  you  think  it  was  right?"  came  the  nettled 
question  of  MacDonald. 

Beaubien  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  is  it  you  say — all  is  fair  in  love  and 
war?"  he  answered. 

MacDonald  leaned  back  and  regarded  Jules 
contemptuously. 

"So,"  he  said,  "we're  still  rivals,  eh?" 

"That  may  be  true." 

MacDonald  laughed  openly. 

"Well,"   he   chuckled,    "well,    you   can   see 
what  chance  you've  got." 

"You,"  said  Jules  quietly,  "lied  to  M'sieur 
McTavish." 

160 


THE    WOLF 

MacDonald  waved  his  hand  in  deprecation. 

"That's  an  ugly  word,"  he  observed,  but  in 
light,  unconcerned  tones.  Where  the  advantage 
was  so  largely  his,  he  could  afford  to  be  tolerant 
of  a  natural  disappointment  prompting  Beaubien 
to  irritation  in  his  speech. 

"It  is  an  ugly  word,"  assented  the  young  man, 
"but  it  is  so.  You  did  lie." 

"No,  I  didn't  lie.  I  just  followed  that  method 
of  yours  that  you  told  about — I  promised." 

He  grinned  victoriously. 

"If  you  get  Hilda  away  from  here,  what  will 
you  do  with  her?  "  asked  Jules. 

"What  would  you  do?"  came  MacDonald's 
question  in  return. 

"That's  my  business." 

"It  is  my  business  what  I  would  do,"  Mac- 
Donald  snapped  back. 

"That  may  be  true,  too,  M'sieur  MacDonald." 

The  engineer  arose.  He  walked  over  and 
161 


THE    WOLF 

stood  in  front  of  Beaubien,  his  stalwart  legs 
apart,  his  hands  behind  his  back.  He  looked 
up  and  winked  in  the  other  man's  face. 

"How  do  you  like  my  little  scheme,  eh?  Do 
you  wonder  I  beat  that  Frenchman  out  of 
Annette?" 

"No,  I  do  not  wonder.  You  are  a  great  man 
at  this  little  game." 

MacDonald  thought  he  discovered  in  this 
admission  a  striking  down  of  the  colors  of  Beau- 
bien, believing  as  he  did  that  the  Frenchman's 
interest  in  the  girl  was  as  impure  and  villainous 
as  his  own. 

"So,"  he  observed,  "I  guess,  Jules,  my  boy, 
you  lay  down.  What?" 

"I  don't  understand." 

"I  mean,  do  you  quit  and  acknowledge  that 
I've  got  the  best  of  you?"  He  nodded  and 
grinned. 

"No,  I  do  not  do  that,  M'sieur  MacDonald." 
162 


THE    WOLF 

There  was  a  certain  quiet  fervor  in  Beaubien's 
tone  that  wiped  away  the  grin  from  MacDonald's 
lips. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Suppose,"  returned  Beaubien,  "I  should  go 
to  M'sieur  McTavish  and — and — tell  him  the 
truth,  and  show  him  how  you  have  lied?" 

"You  won't  do  that!"  exclaimed  MacDonald, 
sharply. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,  Jules,  I  know  you,  and  I  like  you, 
and  I  know  you're  too  game  to  play  the  game 
against  me  that  way." 

"How  is  that?" 

"See  here,"  expostulated  the  engineer,  "we 
both  acknowledged  this  morning  that  we  were 
after  the  same  thing.  You  didn't  in  so  many 
words,  but  in  effect  you  did.  And  between  two 
men  who  are  trying  to  win  a  girl,  the  sportsman- 
163 


THE     WOLF 

like  way  is  not  to  carry  tales  or  resort  to  any  such 
baby  methods,  but  to  stand  on  your  feet  and 
fight,  and  lose  as  gracefully  as  you  win." 

Beaubien  straightened  up.  He  walked  a  step 
toward  MacDonald. 

"That  is  good.  That  is  very  good — what  you 
have  just  now  said — 'stand  on  your  feet  and 
fight!'" 

"Then  you  are  still  ready  to  fight,  Jules?" 

"I  have  always  been  ready  to  fight." 

Under  the  quietness  of  the  tone  there  was  a 
vibrant  sting.  MacDonald  heard  it.  He  looked 
at  the  other  man  quickly.  All  the  pleasantry 
was  gone  from  his  face.  It  was  set  and  serious. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  asked 
angrily. 

"What  I  said,"  replied  Jules  evenly. 

Rage  possessed  MacDonald  at  the  open  defiance 
of  Beaubien.  The  young  Canadian  had,  with 
unexpected  earnestness,  seized  upon  Mac- 
164 


THE    WOLF 

Donald's  words  that  the  proper  method 
for  two  men  who  were  rivals  in  a  serious 
affair  was  for  them  to  "stand  on  their  feet  and 
fight." 

Jules  had  been  perfectly  cool  in  his  retort 
that  it  was  something  that  he  was  always  ready 
to  do.  It  was  not  that  MacDonald  feared  him, 
but  this  would  be  an  awkward  moment  for  an 
open  combat  between  them. 

Jules  himself  had  reasons  for  not  wishing  to 
precipitate  the  fight  that  he  had  decided  must 
be  inevitable  between  himself  and  this  man, 
who  had  ruined  the  life  of  Annette  and  sent  the 
simple  child  to  her  death  in  the  snow — to  her 
horrible  end  as  food  for  the  wolves. 

The  only  difference  between  the  thought  of 
the  two  men  as  they  faced  each  other  was  that 
Jules  realized  that  this  battle  was  to  be  to 
death.  MacDonald,  not  knowing  that  he  stood 
before  the  brother  of  Annette,  and  not  realizing 
165 


THE    WOLF 

the  exalted  character  of  the  love  of  Jules  for  the 
golden-haired  Hilda,  regarded  the  matter  in 
the  light  of  a  passing  affray;  but  even  as  such 
he  must  now  avoid  it. 

He  walked  over  quietly  to  Jules. 

"See  here,"  said  he,  "are  you  going  to  get 
nasty  about  this?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  nasty," 
said  Jules.  He  purposely  put  a  gentleness  in 
his  tones  that  somewhat  cooled  the  anger  of  the 
big  engineer. 

"Young  Ferguson  has  talked  with  me," 
answered  MacDonald  significantly. 

Jules  rolled  a  cigarette. 

"M'sieur  Ferguson  talks  a  great  deal  to  every- 
body," he  observed. 

"He  said  that  if — well,   you  know  what  I 
mean — Hilda  and  all  that — that  you  would  wipe 
me  out  of  existence.    I  infer  from  that  that  you 
intend  to  raise  a  row  here.    Is  that  so?  " 
166 


THE    WOLF 

Very  deliberately  Jules  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke 
from  his  cigarette. 

"That  must  be  M'sieur  Ferguson's  own  idea. 
I  have  never  told  him  that  I  would  do  that,  or 
that  I  would  raise  a  row.  So  you  see  that  he  had 
no  right  to  say  so." 

MacDonald's  manner  displayed  some  relief. 

"Then  you  stand  with  Hilda  and  me  just 
where  you  stood  this  morning.  Is  that  it?" 

Jules  weighed  his  answer.  He  had  heard 
MacDonald's  scheme  of  luring  Hilda  to  New 
York,  with  the  full  consent  of  her  father,  obtained 
through  the  basest  and  wiliest  of  deception,  and 
he  had  his  own  counterplans  under  way.  It 
was  hard  for  Jules,  with  his  fingers  tingling,  not 
to  deal  the  revenge  or  punishment  that,  under 
the  primitive  law  of  wild  places,  he  had  decided 
that  MacDonald  should  in  the  end  receive  at  his 
hands  in  fair  and  open  fight. 

But  if  the  inevitable  contest  should  happen 
167 


THE     WOLF 

there  and  then,  it  would  mean  that  Hilda  would 
be  left  forever  in  the  hands  of  her  harsh  father; 
for  certainly  the  old  man  would  kill  his  daughter 
rather  than  let  her  pass  into  the  hands  of  the 
slayer  of  MacDonald — MacDonald,  whose  daz- 
zling offer  of  riches,  and  further  offer  to  place 
Hilda  in  the  care  of  a  fictitious  Scotch  mother, 
had  raised  the  engineer  to  nothing  less  than  a 
demigod  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  man. 

The  delay  of  a  few  hours  at  least  was  necessary 
before  Jules  could  effectively  arrange  for  the 
flight  of  Hilda.  So  his  reply  to  MacDonald  was 
as  reassuring  as  he  could  make  it. 

"I  stand  with  Hilda  and  you  just  where  I 
stood  this  morning,  M'sieur  MacDonald,"  he 
said. 

"Good,"  said  MacDonald,  palpably  much  easier 
in  mind.  "You've  played  fair  with  me.  I'll  play 
fair  with  you." 

"C'est  bien,"  smiled  Jules. 
168 


THE     WOLF 

"The  old  man  is  at  this  minute  sending  Hilda 

to  me,  and " 

"I  know." 

"Of  course.    You  heard,  you  beggar." 
"That  is  so,"  said  Jules,  winking  at  the  engi- 
neer. 

"She  is  coming  here  to  talk  this  over  with  me — 
to  talk  over  going  away  with  me." 

MacDonald  walked  over  to  Jules  and  smiled 
in  his  big,  genial  fashion. 
"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do." 
"What  will  you  do,  M'sieur  MacDonald?" 
"I'll  give  you  your  chance  to  get  her.    I'll 
give  you  your  chance  to  win  her  if  you  can," 
retorted  the  engineer  with  a  ring  of  defiance 
issuing  from  his  lips  that  were,  however,  still 
smiling.    "I'll  let  you  have  the  first  talk  with 
her,"  he  added.    "You  can  make  love  to  her  in 
your  own  way,  and,  understand,  what  I  do  after- 
ward I'll  do  in  my  own  way.    But  if  Hilda  likes 
169 


THE    WOLF 

you  best  after  you've  talked  with  her  I'll  step 
down  and  out.  But  I'll  tell  you  frankly,  I  don't 
think  you've  got  a  chance." 

"Still,"  replied  Beaubien  with  a  slight  bow, 
"I  will  take  that  chance." 

"All  right.  You're  on.  Wait  here.  She'll 
come  sooner  or  later,  for  her  father  has  gone  to 
find  her  and  send  her  here.  And,  according  to 
agreement,  I'll  keep  away  until  you  have  finished 
your  talk  with  her." 

MacDonald  walked  to  the  door.  He  turned 
and  laughed. 

"Make  the  most  of  your  chance,  my  boy,  for 
it's  a  mighty  slim  one." 

"I  will  do  that,  M'sieur  MacDonald,"  answered 
Jules,  with  that  same  little  bow  that  the  other 
man  had  come  to  find  rather  annoying. 

MacDonald  stepped  out  of  the  house,  placing 
his  sombrero  carelessly  on  the  back  of  his  head 
and  buttoning  his  corduroy  jacket  as  he  went. 
170 


THE    WOLF 

There  was  a  little  sharpness  in  the  autumn  wind. 
The  sky  had  become  overcast  and  the  woods 
looked  grim  and  black. 

He  lighted  his  pipe  and  strolled  slowly  down 
the  woodland  path.  He  smileo  at  the  thought  of 
Jules  as  his  rival. 

To  be  sure  the  handsome,  smiling  Beaubien 
was  a  most  attractive  fellow,  and  MacDonald 
could  easily  imagine  the  admiration  and  success 
that  would  attend  the  browned,  lithe  and  roman- 
tic young  woodsman  down  in  the  big  city  where 
he  would  move  in  contrast  to  the  pallid,  vitiated 
men  whose  lives  were  spent  in  physical  con- 
finement and  under  a  constant  mental  drive  to 
keep  their  shoulders  up  in  the  intense  battle  for 
successful  careers  in  commerce  and  the  pro- 
fessions. 

But  with  Hilda — why,  Jules  was  an  old  story 
with  her.  He  must  rank  merely  as  a  common- 
place personality  in  her  circle  of  interest,  where, 
171 


THE    WOLF 

on  the  other  hand,  he  (MacDonald)  had  all  the 
attraction  of  glittering  novelty,  with  the  stories 
of  his  fame  that  had  reached  the  girl's  ears,  and 
of  his  wealth,  and  with  stories  that  he  himself 
had  so  glowingly  recounted  to  her  of  the  charms 
for  women  in  the  big  cities — the  theatres,  fine 
gowns,  jewels,  lights  and  music,  the  countless 
bewildering  fascinations. 

And  then,  after  all,  if  the  unlikely  thing  did 
happen — if  Hilda  should  announce  her  prefer- 
ence for  Jules?  There  was  old  McTavish  to 
reckon  with. 

McTavish  was  a  factor  that  had  been  com- 
pletely won.  As  between  delivering  his  daughter 
to  the  care  of  the  God-fearing  Scotch  mother 
whom  the  engineer  had  invented  for  the  occasion, 
and  handing  her  over  to  be  the  wife  of  a  French- 
man— he  who  held  the  French  in  such  complete 
contempt,  though  he  was  inclined  rather  to  like 
Jules — McTavish  would  certainly  render  only  one 
172 


THE    WOLF 

decision,  and  that  would  be  in  favor  of  the  plan 
in  which  MacDonald  had  made  him  believe. 
Whatever  liking  McTavish  had  for  Jules  was  too 
superficial,  MacDonald  decided,  ever  to  cause  the 
old  man  to  take  sides  with  the  young  Canadian. 

MacDonald  halted  in  his  walk.  The  path  led 
down  the  mountain  side,  and  suddenly  across 
the  dark  valley  there  had  sounded  the  sharp 
wail  of  a  wolf.  Sounding  as  it  did  in  the  darkness, 
it  came  as  a  call  of  evil  presentiment.  It  made 
MacDonald  shudder,  and  the  next  instant  upbraid 
himself  for  permitting  the  thing  to  affect  his 
nerves. 

But  there  is  that  about  the  cry  of  the  wolf — 
the  long,  mournful  cadence  with  its  tone  of 
savagery  and  yet  its  note  of  fear — that  vibrates 
on  the  strongest  nerves  most  disagreeably. 

MacDonald  caught  himself  hoping  that  the 
occurrence  of  the  night  before  would  not  be 
repeated.  He  had  been  awakened  in  the  middle 
173 


THE    WOLF 

o*  the  night  by  a  series  of  the  wailing  calls  outside. 
Sometimes  there  was  a  single,  sad,  savage  cry. 
At  other  times  there  rose  the  vicious  voices  of 
many  wolves  in  a  shivering  chorus. 

The  cries,  distant  at  first,  had  come  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  the  noise  had  been  so  harrowing  and 
shrill  that  all  in  the  household  had  been  awakened. 

MacDonald  had  gone  to  the  window  as  the 
howling  pack  came  scurrying,  tumbling,  and  with 
mouths  agape,  boldly  out  of  the  concealment  of 
the  trees  and  foliage  and  into  the  clearing  in 
front  of  the  house. 

A  great,  dark,  gray  pack,  they  had  rushed 
dizzily  past  his  window,  and  by  the  moonlight 
one  could  plainly  see  the  red  of  their  open 
mouths  and  lolling  tongues. 

And  MacDonald  remembered  that  as  he  peered 

out  of  the  window  he  had    seen  from  another 

window  in  the  low  extension  in  the  rear  of  the 

house,  the  face  of  Baptiste  Le  Grand  peering  up 

174 


THE    WOLF 

at  him.  The  great  brown  eyes  in  the  broad, 
bearded  face  glittered  almost  as  had  the  eyes 
of  the  passing  wolves. 

MacDonald  had  found  himself  wondering  at  the 
malevolence  of  the  expression,  when  Baptiste 
had  suddenly  openly  grinned  at  him  and  nodded. 

The  passing  of  the  wolfpack  gave  Baptiste 
infinite  satisfaction.  It  meant  something  to 
him  that  MacDonald  did  not  know. 

There  was  in  it  a  sinister  sign  of  the  woods — 
a  grisly  superstition,  religiously  credited  by  the 
children  of  the  forests. 

MacDonald  on  this  very  night  was  to  hear  of 
this  same  grisly  legend  from  the  lips  of  Hilda; 
when,  of  course,  he  would  sneer  at  it,  as  becomes 
a  man  whose  mind  is  not  the  mind  of  a  child. 

But  the  simple  mind  of  Le  Grand  rejoiced  in 

the  sign  of  the  passing  of  the  wolfpack.     It 

made  him  the  more  certain  that  his  enemy  was 

not   to   escape   retribution   for  the  monstrous 

175 


cruelty  of  his  actions  toward  Annette  and  his 
subsequent  complete  indifference  toward  the 
terrible  death  which  had  overtaken  the  child- 
mother. 

There  was  another  thing  that  MacDonald  did 
not  know,  and  that  was  that  his  every  movement 
had  been  shadowed  by  Baptiste  since  the  hour 
that  he  learned  that  this  handsome,  debonair 
man  of  the  great,  wondrous  civilized  city,  thou- 
sands of  miles  away  from  the  woods,  was  the 
moral  murderer  of  the  sweet  and  beautiful 
Annette,  whom  Baptiste  had  loved  with  all  the 
great,  primitive  strength  of  the  big  heart  in  his 
broad  body. 

Baptiste  feared  that  MacDonald  might  suspect 
or  might  accidentally  come  to  learn  of  the  identity 
of  himself  and  Jules  as  the  sweetheart  and  brother 
of  the  dead  girl  and,  finding  this  out,  abandon 
his  schemes  to  possess  Hilda,  and  seek  safety  in 
flight. 

176 


THE    WOLF 

Such  a  move  on  his  part  Baptiste  would  have 
stopped  with  a  Winchester  unerringly  aimed. 

To-night,  for  the  first  time,  MacDonald  walked 
un watched.  And  that  was  because  the  instant 
he  had  left  the  room  telling  Jules  that  he  might 
have  the  first  opportunity  to  lay  his  love  at 
Hilda's  feet,  Beaubien  had  run  quickly  to  the 
window  and  when  the  foe  was  out  of  hearing, 
had  called  to  his  faithful  companion,  who  he 
knew  would,  according  to  the  orders  he  had 
given  him,  be  close  at  hand. 

"Ba'tiste!    Ba'tiste!" 

A  few  seconds  later  Baptiste  was  in  the  room. 
His  rifle  was  in  his  hand. 

"What  you  want,  Jules  Beaubien?"  he  in- 
quired. 


177 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  GREAT  DESIRE 

The  swift,  almost  instant  response  of  Le  Grand 
to  his  call  met  with  a  smile  from  Jules. 

"Always  the  faithful  Ba'tiste  Le  Grand,"  he 
said  affectionately.  "Listen.  You  have  the 
canoe  all  ready  at  the  bank  of  the  river?  " 

"Oui." 

"Plenty  of  food?" 

"Oui." 

"Ready  to  go  now?" 

"Oui." 

"Listen,  Ba'tiste  Le  Grand,  to  Jules  Beaubien 
and  to  my  business." 

The  big,  brown,  doglike  eyes  of  the  sturdy 
Baptiste  sought  the  face  of  Jules  solemnly. 

"Soon,   maybe,   Ba'tiste,   there  will  be  one 
great,  big  fight  and  MacDonald — " 
178 


THE    WOLF 

"Chien!" 

"He  will  try  and  take  Mam'selle  Hilda  away." 

"SacreT' 

"But  he  will  not  do  it.  I,  Jules  Beaubien, 
and  you,  Ba'tiste  Le  Grand,  will  stop  him." 

"Keel?"  asked  Ba'tiste  in  his  blunt,  brusque 
voice. 

Beaubien  shook  his  head  quickly. 

"Sometime,  maybe,"  he  said,  "but  not  now. 
First  Mam'selle  Hilda;  she  must  be  saved." 

"Oui,"  assented  Le  Grand,    "I  onnerstan'." 

"To-night  you  do  not  shoot  until  Jules  tells 
you,  and  only  the  man  Jules  tells  you  to  shoot. 
This  is  not  the  time  to  kill  MacDonald,  my  friend. 
Sometime — yes.  But  not  now.  Understand?" 

The  grip  of  Ba'tiste  tightened  on  his  rifle. 
He  nodded  and  said,  "I  onnerstan'." 

"But  always,  Ba'tiste,"  cautioned  Jules,  "you 
must  be  near  Jules;  and  always  you  must  come 
when  I  call  you;  and  always  the  canoe  must  be 
179 


THE    WOLF 

ready;  and  always  when  I  call  you,  you  must  not 
shoot  until  I  say  so.    Understand,  Ba'tiste?" 

"Oui." 

"That  is  good,  my  friend.  Sit  outside  and  be 
ready  for  Jules.  Au  revoir." 

Baptiste  looked,  in  his  simple,  almost  childish 
manner,  at  his  companion. 

"I'm  ready  to  keel  heem  jus'  soon  as  I  can," 
he  declared.  With  a  final  nod  he  left  the  room 
with  his  silent,  sure,  woodsman's  step. 

Jules  listened  for  the  footfall  of  Hilda,  but  he 
heard  nothing.  To  stay  his  impatience,  he 
rolled  a  cigarette  and  smoked  meditatively. 

The  talk  that  he  was  now  to  have  with  Hilda 
meant  very  much  indeed.  What  if  MacDonald 
should  prevail  upon  the  innocence  of  the  girl 
as  he  had  upon  the  cupidity  and  unsophistication 
of  her  father? 

What  if  he  had  already  made  her  anxious 
and  willing  to  accompany  him,  with  dazzling 
180 


THE    WOLF 

stories  of  the  attractions  of  the  brilliant  outside 
world  with  which  Jules  knew  full  well  the  other 
man  must  have  filled  her  ears? 

What  if,  after  all,  the  magnetic  personality 
and  craft  of  MacDonald  had  stilled  all  suspicion 
in  the  girl's  mind  against  him,  so  that  it  would 
be  useless  to  warn  her  of  his  real  designs? 

Beaubien  was  not  altogether  certain  of  his 
ground  at  this  point  in  his  interference  with  the 
engineer's  machinations. 

He  knew  that  his  own  strong,  true  love  for 
the  girl  had  made  its  impression  upon  her;  that 
she  liked  him  and  trusted  him,  but  was  by  no 
means  sure  that  she  loved  him. 

And  if  he  attacked  MacDonald  too  openly, 
if  he  attempted  to  tell  the  girl  that  the  man  had 
a  wife  and  family  living  and  that  his  promise  of 
marriage  could  not  be  anything  but  a  villainous 
lie,  what  would  he  do  were  she  to  demand  proof 
of  the  truth  of  the  attack? 
181 


THE     WOLF 

If  she  got  the  idea  that  Jules'  own  self- 
interest  prompted  him  to  tell  unworthily  a 
falsehood  against  his  rival,  it  might  lead  the 
girl  to  impulsively  place  her  trust  in  the  astute 
man  of  the  city,  and  to  go  away  with  him. 

He  must  approach  the  girl  delicately.  He 
must  leave  MacDonald's  name  entirely  out  of 
his  talk.  He  must  only  seek  to  awaken  in  her 
mind  its  instinctive  suspicion  of  wickedness — a 
quality  that  his  certainty  of  the  girl's  goodness 
made  him  sure  was  there. 

And  yet  little  Annette  had  been  good — but 
there  had  been  nobody  to  warn  her — to  save 
her — and  little  Annette  was  shamed,  disgraced 
and  killed. 

Hilda,  Jules  decided,  should  be  saved — even 
if  she  herself  resisted  the  efforts  for  her  salvation. 

The  thought  of  Annette  brought  a  frown  on 
the  forehead  of  Beaubien  that  drew  a  livid  line 
between  his  brows. 

182 


THE     WOLF 

"Soon,  M'sieur  MacDonald,"  he  mused,  "soon 
we  shall  see.  And  little  Annette  and  Hilda, 
they  will  also  see." 

Beaubien  heard  a  step  outside.  He  turned, 
expecting  that  it  might  perhaps  be  Hilda. 

But  at  the  window  he  saw  the  smiling  counte- 
nance of  little  Ferguson. 

"Hello,  Jules,  how's  everything? "  asked  that 
cheerful  youth. 

"Bonjour!    Everything  is  fine." 

Ferguson  left  the  window  and  shortly  entered 
the  room. 

"Seen  MacDonald?" 

"Oui." 

"Say  anything?" 

"Much." 

"What's  the  idea?" 

"That  depends." 

Beaubien  studied  young  Ferguson.  The 
thought  came  into  his  mind  that  after  all  this 
183 


THE     WOLF 

seemingly  frank  and  pleasant  youth  might  be 
none  other  than  a  spy  in  camp. 

"You  know  what  I  said  this  morning,"  de- 
clared the  lad. 

"You  said  many  things  this  morning,  Mr. 
Ferguson." 

"About  being  declared  in." 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Beawbien,  his  eyes 
still  studious. 

"I  mean,"  said  Ferguson,  "that  if  there  is  a 
rumpus  over  this  girl,  Hilda,  I'm  with  you.1' 

There  was  that  in  the  young  fellow's  glance 
and  in  the  frankness  of  his  speech  that  caused 
Beaubien  almost  a  blush  of  shame  that  he  had 
for  an  instant  suspected  him  of  treachery. 

"That  is  good,  my  friend,"  he  said  gratefully, 
"and  if  I  need  you  I  will  call." 

"All  right,"  answered  Ferguson  warmly,  "I'll 
expect  you  to,  and — oh,  I'm  not  stuck  on  this 
job  of  mine,  anyway.  Trying  to  keep  me  up 
184 


THE    WOLF 

here  all  winter.  And  if  I  get  fired  for  taking 
sides  with  you  here,  I'll  at  least  get  back  to 
God's  country." 

Further  speech  from  him  was  cut  off  for  the 
instant  by  the  excited  entrance  of  McTavish. 

"Jules,  hae  ye  seen  Hilda?"  cried  the  old  man. 
"I  hae  been  huntin'  high  and  low  for  her,  and — " 

"Well,  if  there  isn't  my  old  friend,  the  Scotch 
thistle,"  came  from  Ferguson. 

"Gang  awa',  ye  empty-headed  fool." 

"Wrong  again!  I  may  be  empty-headed, 
but  I'm  not  a  fool." 

"Ye  hae  nae  respect  fer  yer  elders,"  snorted 
McTavish. 

And  instantly  thereafter  the  irritated  Scot 
almost  lost  his  breath  in  amazement,  for  Ferguson 
came  forward  and  said  very  humbly: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  McTavish." 

"Yer  what?"  gasped  the  old  man. 

"I  said,  I  beg  your  pardon." 
185 


THE    WOLF 

"  Tis  time  ye  were  doin'  it,  ye  jackanapes,  an' 
I'm  glad  ye're  gettin'  a  little  sense,"  was  the 
comment  of  McTavish,  delivered  with  a  growl 
and  a  final  grunt. 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Ferguson,  "how  joyful! 
My  apology  has  been  accepted." 

McTavish  turned  impatiently  from  him. 

"Jules,"  he  went  on  excitedly,  "I'm  asking 
ye  if  ye've  seen  Hilda  ?" 

"I  have  had  no  chance  to  answer,"  smiled 
Beaubien.  "No,  I  have  not." 

"Well,  well,"  growled  the  Scot,  "I've  hunted 
everywhere  for  her.  I  must  find  her,  lad,  an' 
tell  her  o'  Meester  MacDonald's  plan." 

He  moved  toward  the  door  through  which  he 
had  entered  the  room.  Just  as  he  reached  it 
Ferguson  sang  out: 

"Oh,  Mr.  McTavish,  just  a  moment,  please." 

"What  is  it,  ye  young  jackanapes?"  he  de- 
manded, turning. 

186 


THE    WOLF 

Ferguson  made  a  quick  gesture  toward  him. 

"Pull  down  your  kilts!"  he  yelled. 

McTavish  was  trapped  into  an  impulsive 
motion  towards  his  hips.  Then,  realizing  that 
he  was  again  a  victim,  all  he  had  for  reply  was  a 
roar  of  anger. 

"Ba-ah!"  he  cried  at  Ferguson. 

The  door  was  slammed  so  hard  it  shook. 

"That  fellow's  as  full  of  'ba-ahs'  as  a  mountain 
goat,"  observed  the  grinning  Ferguson,  "I'm 
going  to  write  some  letters.  If  you  need  me, 
call  me." 

"Hello,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  Hilda  hastily  enter 
the  rooms.  "Oh,  you  Hilda;  your  sweet  tem- 
pered dad  is  looking  for  you." 

"And    I'm    looking   for   him.    Hello,    Jules, 

I—" 

\ 

Young  Ferguson  left  the  room  with  a  smile 
and  a  nod  at  them  both* 
"I'm  glad  you've  come,   Hilda.    I've  been 
187 


THE     WOLF 

waiting  to  see  you,"  said  Jules.  There  was  an 
appreciable  note  of  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

The  young  Canadian  drew  up  a  chair  for  her. 
She  sat  down.  He  stood  beside  her.  He  felt 
that  a  most  important  moment  in  both  their 
lives  was  at  hand. 

Jules  looked  down  upon  the  golden-haired 
head  of  Hilda.  There  was  an  impulse  to  touch 
the  shining  golden  hair,  whose  thick,  yellow 
strands  were  severely  parted  and  drawn  back 
from  her  brow  to  fall  over  her  shoulders  in 
tightly  braided  ropes  of  gold;  to  touch  this  hair 
kindly,  tenderly,  reverently.  But  he  contented 
himself  with  merely  looking  down  upon  her 
head  and  the  graceful  turn  in  the  tender  cheek 
that  he  could  see  beneath  her  heavy  hair. 

The  psychological  bond  was  strong  between 
them.  She  felt  his  glance  and,  looking  upward, 
eyed  him  frankly,  saying: 

"What  is  it,  Jules?  Your  voice  sounds  very 
188 


THE    WOLF 

low,  very  earnest — as  if  you  had  something  of 
very  great  meaning  to  tell  me." 

He  leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand.  She 
arose  and  followed  him  to  the  window.  The 
autumn  wind,  laden  with  the  bouquet  of  the  pines, 
fanned  their  faces  and  stirred  locks  of  her  golden 
hair  to  rebellion.  The  clouds  had  been  dispelled, 
and  the  moonlight  had  laid  a  gorgeous  silver 
crest  upon  the  foliage  of  the  forest,  and  upon  the 
river  stealing  silently  and  swiftly  by  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  slope. 

"Hilda,"  said  Jules,  finally,  "we  two  are 
much  the  same,  are  we  not?  " 

"I  don't  know,  Jules.    Are  we?" 

And  now,  unconsciously,  his  lithe,  strong 
young  hand  rested  on  the  golden  hair  above  her 
brow.  His  brown  eyes  searched  her  large,  elear 
blue  eyes. 

"I  mean,"  he  said,  his  voice  very  low,  "that 
you  and  I — we  are  children  of  the  forest,  and  it 
189 


THE    WOLF 

has  been  our  mother.  There  is  nothing  we 
know  beyond  it,  and  nothing  we  care  about 
beyond  it.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"No,  Jules,"  she  replied.  "I  don't  think  it  is 
so.  I  care.  Since  I  was  a  wee  little  girl,  Jules, 
I've  loved  everything — everything  in  the  world, 
but  father;  and  he  would  not  let  me  love  him. 
Every  dream  I  have  had  he  has  driven  away, 
and  now  for  the  last  two  or  three  years  I  have 
had  the  strangest  feeling  coming  over  me — yearn- 
ing for  somebody  or  some  place — the  great  desire 
that  things  should  be  different,  that  my  life 
should  be  different,  that  I  should  be  different." 

"Hilda,"  said  Jules  swiftly,  huskily,  "you 
must  not  call  this  the  great  desire.  There  is 
only  one  great  desire,  Hilda." 

"And  what  is  that,  Jules?" 

"That  is  love,"  said  the  man.    He  caught 
her  hands.    She  did  not  resist.    There  was  that 
in  his  touch  that  won  her  trust. 
190 


"THEN,  HILDA,  THE  WORLD  is  FULL  or  LOVE." 


Page  191. 


THE    WOLF 

She  looked  up  at  him  earnestly,  this  girl  of 
the  wilderness,  in  whose  knowledge  the  lack  of  a 
mother's  care  and  guidance  had  left  great  gaps 
of  ignorance  of  the  world's  affairs. 

"Tell  me  all  about  love,"  she  whispered, 
aware  that  she  broached  some  subject  that  was 
sacred  to  him.  "Do  you  know  love?  Do  I 
love?  Whom  do  I  love?  How  do  I  love? 
Jules,  why  do  I  love?" 

"Hilda,  love  is  the  great  desire,  and  all  that 
live  have  it." 

He  stared  as  if  in  reverie  at  the  moonlit  forest 
spreading  its  great  tangle  of  beauty,  grace  and 
mystery  before  their  eyes. 

"In  the  spring  time,"  he  continued,  "when 
the  snow  melts  and  the  ice  crashes  down  the 
river;  when  the  pink  flowers  of  the  forest  peep 
from  under  the  snowdrifts — then,  Hilda,  the 
world  is  full  of  love.  The  ducks  and  the  geese 
are  noisy  in  their  romances.  The  he-wolf  kills 
191 


THE     WOLF 

night  and  day  to  feed  the  mother  of  his  cubs. 
The  bull  moose  bellows  in  the  pride  of  his 
fatherhood.  The  robin  watches  its  bright-eyed 
mate  on  the  nest,  waiting  for  those  three  little 
eggs  to  bring  new  life  into  the  world.  And  all 
this,  Hilda,  is  the  love  God  wanted  man  to  have. 
But  it  is  not  always  so,  Hilda.  Some  men  some- 
times have  sinned,  and  the  great  desire  is  not 
always  good  or  always  pure." 

The  girl  looked  keenly  at  his  face  and  saw  the 
tenderness  that  softened  the  well-turned  lips  of 
his  mouth  and  the  romance  that  shone  in  his 
expressive  eyes. 

"Have  you  ever  felt  the  great  desire,  Jules? 
Is  there  love  in  you  that  is  good,  or  have  you  too 
sinned  as  other  men  have,  or  as   my  father— 
the  girl's  voice  dropped   again  to  a  whisper — 
"as  my  father  says  my  mother  sinned?" 

"Hilda,"  he  answered,  bending  so  that  his 
face  was  very  near  her  own,  "I  have  had  the 
192 


THE    WOLF 

great  desire,  like  all  men,  since  first  the  blood 
beat  strong  through  my  heart  and  I  knew  that 
I  was  no  longer  a  child.  I  have  not  always  been 
good.  But  having  been  bad  I  have  learned 
much,  and  now  always  I  wish  to  be  good.  Love, 
Hilda,  comes  to  a  man  in  his  loneliness,  and 
tears  at  his  heart  like  the  fangs  of  a  wolf. 
I  have  been  to  the  North,  many  hundred  miles 
to  the  North,  in  the  cold  of  winter,  when  the  gray 
light  of  the  departing  day  leaves^you  in  the  black- 
ness of  night  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — 
when  at  noon,  the  red  rim  of  a  distant  sun  is  the 
only  message  from  the  warmth  and  glow  of  the 
Southland.  And  then,  in  the  cold  and  loneliness, 
the  great  desire  has  come  upon  me.  I  loved — 
and  somewhere  I  knew  my  mate  was  waiting. 
And  I'd  curl  up  among  my  dogs  and  sleep  peace- 
fully and  dream  of  my  coming  happiness." 

"I — I,  too,  have  felt  that  way,  Jules,"  faltered 
Hilda.    "In  the  long  winter  months  here,  I  have 
193 


THE    WOIF 

watched  the  wolfpack — gaunt,  hungry,  hollow- 
eyed,  their  white  teeth  gleaming  in  the  moonlight 
as  they  stood  near  the  house  and  howled  for  the 
food  to  give  them  life.  I  have  watched  my 
father  kill  one — only  to  see  the  dead  wolf  torn 
to  pieces  by  his  comrades  and  then  I,  too,  seem 
to  have  felt  the  great  desire — to  be  willing  to 
change  my  place,  to  be  one  of  them,  to  be  free, 
to  suffer,  to  hunt,  to  kill — but  still  to  be  free  to 
choose  my  own  way  of  living.  Jules — Jules, 
was  that  love?  Tell  me,  for  I  do  not 
know." 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  your  love  is,  Hilda.  But," 
said  the  young  man,  with  great  sudden  gravity, 
as  his  mind  pictured  the  threatening  figure  of 
MacDonald,  who  would  soon  have  this  child- 
woman  practically  at  the  mercy  of  his  conscience- 
less skill,  "love  is  not  always  good  to  listen  to. 
Sometimes  love  points  wrong,  and  sometimes, 
when  you  follow  its  trail,  it  leads  you  to  where 
194 


THE    WOLF 

there  is  no  food  or  shelter,  and  the  soul  that 
makes  love  dies  in  agony." 

"I  did  not  know  that,"  she  said,  her  large 
eyes  fixed  in  a  stare  of  mystification. 

"Hilda,"  said  Jules,  "I  had  a  sister  just  your 
age." 

"I  did  not  know  that  either,"  she  said,  smiling 
at  him. 

"Her  name  was  Annette — and  she  was  loved." 

"Was  it  good  for  her  to  love,  Jules?" 

"No — no!"   he  cried  to  her,   and  his  voice 

became  broken.    "It  was  not  good  for  her  to 

love,  for  the  mate  whom  she  loved  made  many 

promises,  and  told  many  lies,  and  he  was  not  of 

her  race,  nor  did  he  speak  her  tongue.     His 

heart  was  black  with  the  stain  of  deceit,  but 

Annette,  she  was  a  true  mate.     Then,  Hilda, 

according  to  the  law  of  nature,  there  came  a 

little  child,  which  you  do  not  understand,  Hilda, 

but  which  must  always  be  so.    And  this  man 

195 


THE    WOLF 

of  different  race  and  different  tongue  ran  away 
to  his  own  country  and  left  Annette  alone,  and 
that  was  not  good.  For  the  church  tells  us  that 
there  must  be  a  marriage  with  mates,  and  be- 
tween this  man  and  my  little  sister,  Annette, 
there  was  no  marriage." 

Gently  the  girl  removed  her  hands  from  Jules' 
grasp.  With  her  fingers  she  brushed  away  her 
tears  gently. 

"Poor  little  Annette/'  she  murmured.  "What 
did  she  do,  Jules?" 

"She  killed  herself,  Hilda,  that  the  child 
might  die  with  her.  And  that  was  the  trail  of 
love,  Hilda,  that  led  to  the  murder  of  a  soul." 

Her  hands  were  crossed  on  her  breast  as, 
with  widened  eyes,  she  watched  this  youthful, 
strong  man,  shaken  in  every  fibre  by  his  great 
emotion.  He  possessed  himself  of  her  hands. 

"And  if  any  man  comes  to  you  who  is  not  of 
your  race  nor  of  this  country,  I  ask  you,  my 
196 


THE    WOLF 

little  girl,  to  be  very  careful  of  God  and  the 
church.  Promise  me — promise  me,  Hilda!" 

"Ah!"  she  answered  him  quickly,  "that  is 
the  way  it  must  be,  Jules.  Yes — yes,  I  promise 
you." 

For  an  instant  his  lips  touched  her  forehead. 

"That  is  good,"  he  said  simply.  "I  am 
content." 

Hilda  started.  The  rough  visage  of  her 
father  called  angrily: 

"Girl,  where  hae  ye  been?" 

The  old  man  hurriedly  entered  the  room. 


197 


CHAPTER  XII 

THROWN  TO  THE  WOLF 

Hilda,  to  whom  the  minutes  that  she  had  just 
passed  with  Jules  had  contained  more  of  tender- 
ness and  beauty  than  her  isolated,  affection- 
starved  existence  had  ever  known,  shrank  in 
dismay  at  the  intrusion  of  her  father,  with  his 
rude  words  spoken  in  his  characteristic  harshness 
of  tone. 

The  poetry,  the  romance,  the  purity  and  the 
pathos  of  the  things  that  Beaubien  had  been 
uttering  to  her,  the  frankness  of  his  mellow  voice, 
the  honesty  in  his  fine  brown  eyes,  had  entranced 
the  girl. 

Wholly  unsophisticated  as  she  was,  she  yet 

recognized  a  difference  in  the  touch  of  his  hand 

and  the  touch  of  the  hand  of  MacDonald.    She 

had  found  herself  receiving  the  touch  of  Beaubien 

198 


THE    WOLF 

and  even  the  light,  flitting  kiss  on  her  brow 
wholly  without  fear  or  shame. 

The  purity  of  it  was  intuitively  recognized. 
It  was  not  exactlv  realized,  however,  and  she 
wondered  why  she  had  welcomed  the  caress  of 
the  one  man,  and  had  shrunk  from  the  touch  of 
the  other. 

She  had  little  time  to  weigh  these  matters, 
however,  for  her  father's  raucous  voice  was 
repeating  the  question: 

"Girl,  where  hae  ye  been?" 

His  unsympathetic  attitude  with  her,  the 
resentment  that  never  faded  out  of  his  queer 
green  eyes,  had  always  the  effect  of  confusing  the 
girl,  of  making  her  summon  every  nerve  to  face 
the  old  man  calmly  and  intelligently. 

"Why,  father,  I—" 

Her  voice  wavered  and  she  drew  away  from 
Jules  at  the  window  and  nearer  to  the  centre  of  the 
room.   Her  father's  next  words  were  a  relief  to  her. 
199 


THE    WOLF 

"Dinna  be  makin'  excuses,"  he  growled.  "I 
dinna  care." 

Indeed  McTavish  was  too  exhilarated  in  mind 
by  the  plans  of  MacDonald  to  have  thought  of 
aught  else. 

"Jules,"  he  asked,  "hae  ye  spoken  to  her  o' 
Meester  MacDonald  and  his  plans?" 

Beaubien  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  have  not  mentioned  his  name,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"An'  ye  hae  told  her  nothin' — nothin'  o'  the 
grand  plans  o'  Meester  MacDonald?"  demanded 
the  Scot. 

"I  have  told  her  much,"  said  Jules,  in  his 
turn,  walking  from  the  window  and  drawing 
near  the  old  man,  "but  I  have  not  mentioned  the 
name  of  MacDonald.  I  have  not  so  much  as 
spoken  his  name." 

McTavish  stared  at  the  young  fellow  and 
shook  bia  head,  at  a  loss  to  make  anything  of 
200 


his    attitude,   and    then    resumed,    excitedly: 

"Then  'tis  fair  time  she  knew." 

He  opened  the  door  and  called  MacDonald's 
name  down  the  hallway.  He  got  no  answer. 
He  ran  to  the  window  and  peered  out.  He  was 
in  time  to  behold  MacDonald  just  entering  the 
clearing  after  his  walk  in  the  woods. 

There  was  another  murky  figure,  occupying 
the  pine  tree  seat.  It  was  Baptiste  Le  Grand, 
with  a  rifle  on  his  knees  that  the  darkness  made 
completely  hidden. 

"Meester  MacDonald — Meester  MacDonald — 
is  that  you,  mon?"  called  the  Scot. 

"Here,  Mr.  McTavish.  I'll  be  there  in  a 
minute,"  cried  back  MacDonald,  and,  in  less 
than  that  time  looked  in  at  the  window.  He 
looked  quickly  at  Hilda,  but  her  eyes  were  not 
toward  him.  They  rather  sought  the  eyes  of 
Jules. 

A  nettled  frown  appeared  on  MacDonald's 
201 


THE     WOLF 

brow  and  as  rapidly  disappeared.  He  forced 
himself  to  smile.  After  all,  he  was  giving  the 
Frenchman  too  much  thought — too  much  con- 
sideration. 

Whatever  Jules  might  have  been  able  to  say 
to  the  girl,  he  was  to  have  the  final  word.  He 
glanced  at  the  slender  woman  with  her  face  of 
complete  innocence,  and  by  its  symbolic  purity 
felt  reassured  that  his  subtle  wickedness  was 
bound  to  conquer. 

"Coom  in,  mon;  coom  in,"  McTavish  called 
eagerly,  "I've  a  word  to  say  tae  ye." 

"All  right.  In  I  come,"  responded  Mac- 
Donald  cheerfully  from  without  the  window. 
A  few  steps  brought  him  into  the  room.  He 
smiled  with  his  usual  fascinating  and  good- 
humored  expression. 

With  the  Scot  the  occasion  that  followed 
was  solemn  and  momentous.  Much  as  he  had 
hated  Hilda  for  the  painful  memory  which  her 
202 


THE    WOLF 

golden-haired  resemblance  to  her  mother  never 
allowed  to  die,  he  yet  felt  the  stirring  of  a  parent's 
affection  when  the  time  arrived  when  he  must 
announce  to  her  his  decision  that  their  lives 
were  henceforth  to  be  lived  apart. 

"Coom  here,  girl,"  he  said,  and  there  was  in 
his  voice  sufficient  of  latent  tenderness  to  make 
Hilda  move  toward  him  in  swift  surprise,  and 
even  to  smile  up  at  him. 

"Girl,"  said  the  aged  man,  "ye  hae  reached 
the  age  o'  danger  tae  yersel'  an'  tae  ithers." 

The  cruelty  of  this  speech  drove  her  back  to 
her  old  shrinking  fear  of  him. 

"I  do  not  know  that,  father,"  she  said.  Her 
voice  was  firm.  The  presence  of  Jules,  she 
vaguely  realized,  was  helping  her. 

"But  I'm  tellin'  ye,"  persisted  the  old  man 

harshly.     "Twas  in  the  same  year  o'  her  life 

that  yer  mither  blackened  her  soul.   But  now  I  hae 

found  a  way  to  save  ye  from  the  sin  in  yer  heart." 

203 


THE     WOLF 

Beaubien  stood  looking  on  intently.  Mac- 
Donald  was  a  witness  whose  face  bore  an  open 
expression  of  pleasant  approval. 

"Meester  MacDonald,"  continued  McTavish, 
turning  toward  the  engineer  and  waving  his  long 
arm,  "ye'll  be  tellin'  her  o'  our  decision,  an'  the 
plans  we  hae  made.  I  mysel'  hae  naething  tae 
say." 

MacDonald  moved  away  with  smiling  courtesy. 

"Shall  I  tell  her  now?"  he  asked. 

"Aye,"  assented  the  old  man.  "An'"  Hilda, 
treat  every  word  Meester  MacDonald  says  tae 
ye  wi'  respect  an'  obedience,  for  'tis  yer 
faither's  wish  an'  yer  dooty  toward  yersel,  an' 
ithers." 

Remonstrance  shot  into  the  eyes  of  Jules  and 
almost  obtained  utterance  from  his  lips.  The 
power  passed  to  MacDonald  was  great.  The 
weapon  thrust  into  the  hands  of  the  villainous- 
minded  enemy  was  so  trenchant  that  it  made 
204 


THE    WOLF 

him  despair  of  the  effect  that  it  would 
have  on  Hilda.  Surely  the  child  so  admon- 
ished would  yield  fully  to  MacDonald's  schemes. 

Yet  the  next  instant  Beaubien  was  able  to  smile 
as  affably  as  MacDonald,  for  Jules  remembered 
his  own  decision,  which  was  that  either  with  her 
consent  or  against  her  will,  he  would  rescue  her 
from  the  man  who  would  lead  her  down  the  same 
road  of  shame  and  death  that  poor  little  Annette 
had  trod. 

"Coom,  Jules,  mon,"  said  McTavish,  intent 
that  there  should  be  no  further  delay  in  ac- 
quainting Hilda  with  the  plan  on  which  he  had 
agreed  with  MacDonald,  "coom,  and  leave  them 
alone." 

"That  is  my  pleasure,  M'sieur  McTavish," 
said  Beaubien,  but  as  he  passed  Hilda  on  his  way 
to  the  door  he  flashed  a  great,  intent  look  of 
warning  into  her  eyes. 

She  seemed  to  understand  the  glance,  and  yet 
205 


THE     WOLF 

hardly  to  realize  its  meaning.  It  was  plain  that 
she  was  confused,  trembling,  uncertain  about 
the  portent  of  the  words  that  had  just  passed. 

MacDonaid,  with  the  girl  turned  over  to  him 
eo  unreservedly — every  barrier  of  suspicion  that 
might  be  raised  against  him  in  the  girl's  mind  so 
assuredly  broken  down  by  the  command  of  her 
father  that  she  should  render  unto  him  full 
faith  and  obedience — was  elated.  Dangerous  as 
the  thing  was  (which  was  what  made  it  irresistibly 
attractive  to  the  adventurous  engineer)  he 
slipped  between  McTavish  and  Jules  on  their 
way  out  of  the  room. 

"Jules,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  was  very  low, 
but  was  teeming  with  laughter. 

"What  is  it,  M'sieur  MacDonaid?"  asked  the 
young  man,  himself  outwardly  serene  and  smiling. 

"Where  do  you  stand  now,  eh?"  taunted  the 
strategist. 

With  the  smile  never  leaving  his  lips  and  his 
206 


THE    WOLF 

voice  sunk  quite  to  a  whisper,  Beaubien  re- 
torted : 

"Still  I  stand  on  my  feet  and  fight,  Mac- 
Donald  .  Au  revoir ! ' ' 

The  girl  was  left  alone  in  the  room  with  the 
betrayer  of  Annette.  She  stared  at  him  wonder- 
ingly.  The  fear  of  the  hunted  thing  some- 
how got  into  her  mind  and  made  her  body 
tremble. 

It  was  against  her  will  that  these  emotions 
controlled  her.  The  words  that  Jules  had  spoken 
with  such  splendidly  earnest  eloquence — the 
warning  that  he  had  uttered  against  her  ever 
permitting  herself  to  fall  a  victim  to  a  bad  love, 
as  his  unfortunate  little  half-sister  had  done — 
struck  across  her  mind  unbidden. 

For  her  eyes  told  her  that  the  man  before  her 

was  regarding  her  in  a  very  kindly  fashion,  and 

if  she  did  not  like  the  smile  on  his  heavy  lips  she 

felt  herself  that  it  was  only  because  they  seemed 

207 


THE    WOLF 

to  bespeak  amusement  at  her  own  apparent 
trepidation,  which,  she  assured  herself,  was 
really  an  absurdity. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Hilda?  Are  you  afraid 
of  me?" 

The  girl  felt  that  she  must  not  at  this  moment 
in  her  life  show  fear — show  any  weakness  what- 
soever. 

"No,"  she  replied,  surprised  at  the  steadi- 
ness of  her  own  voice,  "I  am  not  afraid  of 
you." 

"Do  you  like  me?"  he  asked;  and  his  tone  was 
of  one  that  suspected  an  intended  slight. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  girl  generously.  "Yes, 
I  like  you." 

"Then  what  makes  you  look  troubled?" 

She  stared  at  him  for  several  seconds.    And 
he  stared  at  her,  frowning  slightly,  annoyed  that 
he  was  finding  the  girl's  mind  and  her  disposition 
toward  him  very  difficult  to  read. 
208 


THE     WOLF 

"Mr.  MacDonald,"  she  said  slowly,  "do  you 
believe  in  signs?" 

"What  kind  of  signs?"  he  asked  indulgently. 

"The  signs  of  the  forest." 

"Superstitions?" 

"Perhaps  so."  Hilda  turned  her  head  a  little 
to  one  side  and  smiled.  "Am  I  very  fool- 
ish?" 

"Oh,  no;  maybe  not,"  observed  the  man, 
avoiding  anything  that  might  lead  to  contro- 
versy. "What  sign  have  you  seen?" 

"Once,  when  I  was  very  little,"  responded 
Hilda.  "I  had  an  Indian  nurse — an  Ojibway — 
and  she  was  very  wise,  for  in  her  tribe  she  was 
the  daughter  of  the  medicine  man.  Last  night — 
did  you  hear  the  wolves?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  said  MacDonald,  finding  himself 
somewhat  startled  into  interest,  for  his  memory 
of  the  pack  was  unpleasantly  vivid.  "They 
woke  me  up." 

209 


THE    WOLF 

"They  passed  the  house  in  a  pack  last  night, 
and  that  is  a  sign." 

"A  sign  of  what?" 

"They  say,"  answered  Hilda,  moving  toward 
one  of  the  big  chairs  and  leaning  against  it,  her 
face  showing  complete  earnestness  in  her  words, 
"that  the  wolves  never  go  in  packs  except  when 
the  winter  is  long  and  the  game  is  scarce.  But 
in  Indian  summer  they  can  scent  the  death  of 
men  for  many  miles,  and  before  death  comes 
they  form  in  a  pack  and  howl  at  the  camp ;  and 
then,  before  the  moon  rises  and  sets  another  time, 
death  will  take  some  man  and  the  pack  will 
come  back  for  a  taste  of  his  blood." 

"Ugh!"  exclaimed  MacDonald,  with  a  very 
genuine  shudder. 

"Is  it  a  foolish  sign?  Do  you  think  it  is 
foolish,  Mr.  MacDonald?" 

"Does  it  frighten  you?"  asked  the  engineer, 
calling  back  his  good-humored  smile. 
210 


THE    WOLF 

"Something  does.  Something  frightens  me 
as  I  stand  here  now.  Maybe  it  was  the  thought 
of  that — that  wild  pack  scenting  the  blood  of 
some  man  who  is  to  die." 

MacDonald  shook  the  uncanny  subject  off 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

"I'd  forget  it  if  I  were  you,"  he  said.  "Be- 
sides, I  want  to  talk  to  you,  and  not  about  such 
foolish  things  as  superstitions,  Hilda." 

"Ah,  yes,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  looking  at  him 
curiously.  "What  was  it  father  wanted?" 

"I've  spoken  to  him." 

"About  me?" 

"Yes." 

MacDonald  motioned  to  her  to  take  the  chair 
beside  which  she  had  been  standing.  He  walked 
over  and  stood  near  the  chair. 

"Yes,  Hilda;  I've  been  talking  to  him  about 
you." 

"About  taking  me  away  to  the  cities?" 
211 


THE     WOLF 

"Yes.  I  told  him  what  I  told  you  this  morning. 
I  said  to  him  frankly  that  I  loved  you  and  that  I 
wanted  you.  I  told  him  that  I  would  take  you 
to  my  mother,  and  that  we  would  marry.  And 
he  said,  Hilda,  that  he  was  willing.  Do  you 
love  me,  Hilda?" 

The  girl's  silence  was  annoying.  MacDonald 
watched  her  for  a  few  seconds  and  then  made  a 
gesture  of  impatience.  She  looked  up  at  him 
apologetically. 

"I  can't  tell.     I  do  not  think  so,"  she  said. 

MacDonald  laughed.  His  manner  was  tol- 
erant, indulgent. 

"Do  you  know  any  more  about  love  now 
than  you  did  then  —  when  I  spoke  to  you 
first?" 

Her  answer  came  as  a  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  said.    "I  know  now  that 
there  is  a  good  love  and  a  bad  love.    Which  of 
these  is  your  love  for  me?" 
212 


THE    WOLF 

MacDonald  met  the  emergency.  He  leaned 
over  the  chair.  He  placed  his  face  very  near  to 
her  face.  His  breath  struck  against  her  cheek 
ardently. 

"It  is  the  good  love,  Hilda,"  he  whispered. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  wanted  to  marry  you? 
You  can  come  with  me  now  to  my  country.  I 
will  be  kind  to  you — kind  as  no  one  has  ever 
been." 

Hilda  sat  very  straight  in  her  chair.  The 
fear  that  she  had  felt  when  first  left  alone  in  the 
room  with  him,  and  that  for  a  time  had  lessened, 
returned  strongly.  MacDonald's  words  still  came 
rapidly. 

"Afterwards,"  he  said,  "when  we  reach  my 
country,  we  can  be  married.  I  must  have  you. 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that.  I  am  not  of 
your  land  or  your  people,  but  love  does  not 
know  these  things.  I  tell  you,  Hilda,  I  want 
to  possess  you;  to  have  you  for  my  own,  away 
213 


THE    WOLF 

from  every  one  else;  to  make  you  a  lady.  Do 
you  realize  all  that  I  mean  to  do  for  you  ?  Your 
father  has  said  I  may  have  you,  and  I  say  I 
must  have  you." 

Hilda  started  out  of  the  chair,  on  her  feet. 
She  looked  at  him  with  fear  frankly  in  her  eyes. 

"It  is  a  good  love!"  cried  MacDonald;  "a 
good  love,  and  a  big  love.  Here,  Hilda,  come  to 
me." 

Before  she  could  resist,  the  muscular  Mac- 
Donald  had  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  drawn  her 
toward  him,  holding  her  tightly.  And  with  the 
same  swiftness  he  pressed  his  lips  against  her 
mouth. 

There  was  that  in  the  kiss,  in  the  lewdness  of  it 
(of  which  she  was  only  half -conscious)  that  made 
the  girl  writhe  and  struggle  for  release  from  his 
arms. 

But  his  grasp  was  relentless.  She  continued  to 
battle  against  him,  and  suddenly  finding  that 
214 


"THKRE  WAS  THAT  IN  THE  KISS  ....  WHICH  MADE  THE  GIRL  STRUGGLE  FOR  RELEASE 

FROM  HIS  ARMS." 

Page  214. 


THE    WOLF 

she  had  wrenched  her  right  arm  free,  she  struck 
at  him. 

It  was  a  single,  furious  blow.  It  crashed  on 
MacDonald's  cheek,  and  the  marks  of  her  slender 
fingers  showed  like  red  welts  from  a  whip-lash 
on  his  face. 

MacDonald  released  her — falling  back  a  few 
paces.  His  face  was  agape  in  astonishment  at 
the  power  of  resistance  that  had  met  him. 

A  great  flush  of  shame  reddened  the  girl's 
countenance. 

"Liar!  Liar!"  she  gasped,  her  breast  heaving. 
"Your  love  is  a  bad  love!  You  say  it  is  a  good 
love?  Liar!" 


215 


CHAPTER  XIII 
"YOU  CAN'T  DO  IT" 

The  blow  that  the  girl  struck  MacDonald  had 
such  a  stinging  force,  had  such  manifest  earnest- 
ness behind  it,  that  the  big  engineer,  despite  his 
fatuous  illusions  concerning  his  power  over  her 
that  he  had  so  fully  entertained  a  moment  before, 
now  found  himself  utterly  bereft  of  any  such 
notion. 

If  the  blow  were  not  sufficient  to  tell  him  that 
the  girl's  instinct — added  to  the  warning  that 
Beaubien,  with  a  sincere  lover's  skill,  had  placed 
in  her  mind  against  trusting  men  of  a  strange 
land — spelled  defeat  to  him,  her  countenance 
as  she  flung  the  word  "Liar!"  at  him  in  hot 
denunciation,  plainly  flared  the  signals  of  defeat 
for  his  villainous  plans,  prompted  by  a  no  less 
villainous  desire. 

216 


THE     WOLF 

Scorn  had  made  the  large  blue  eyes  of  Hilda 
glitter  as  with  fire,  and  her  fresh,  youthful  lips 
were  curled  into  an  expression  of  loathing. 

"Liar!"  she  called  again,  to  the  man  who 
had  ended  his  protest  of  holding  a  pure  love  for 
her  by  seeking  to  implant  a  kiss  as  wantonly 
violent  as  the  expression  that  had  come  into  his 
eyes. 

"What?"  he  cried,  seeking  to  cover  his  bitter 
amazement  with  an  affectation  of  indignation. 

"Liar!"  retorted  the  girl  with  an  intensity 
that  caused  him  to  retreat  a  few  steps.  She 
threw  out  her  hands.  They  were  clenched. 

"It  is  not  a  good  love,"  she  cried.  "It  is  a 
bad  love!  Don't  you  think  I  know  what  my 
father  means?  He  hates  me  and  you  hate  me. 
He  says  my  heart  is  black.  He  lies!  And  you 
lie!" 

The  girl  took  a  few  steps  toward  MacDonald. 
Whatever  fear  she  may  have  had  of  him  had  fled. 
217 


THE    WOLF 

"But  he  wants  to  make  my  heart  black  and 
you  want  to  make  it  black ;  and  you  and  he  are 
trying  to  make  me  bad.  But  you  can't  do  it. 
You  can't  do  it.  You  can't  do  it! " 

Her  voice  rose  to  a  scream  of  anger  and  defiance 
at  the  last  words. 

MacDonald,  striving  to  regain  his  self-possession 
under  the  lash  of  her  denunciation,  protested: 

"I  tell  you,  you're  wrong.  I  tell  you,  my  love 
is  good." 

"Liar!" 

"I  want  to  make  you  my  wife  and  take  you 
to  my  country  as  my  wife." 

"Liar!" 

The  recollection  of  the  kiss  fell  upon  her  and 
she  wiped  her  lips  with  her  hand  as  though  she 
would  wipe  away  a  contamination  from  her 
mouth. 

The  gesture  angered  MacDonald  even  more 
than  her  words,  for  it  drove  straight  into  his 
218 


THE    WOLF 

understanding  that  he  was  held  in  abhorrence 
by  this  girl.  And  that  was  more  than  Mac- 
Donald's  vanity  could  bear. 

He  strode  toward  her. 

"See  here!"  he  cried,  "your  father  has  told 
me  that  I  could  take  you  away  with  me,  and  you 
might  as  well  understand  that  I  am  going  to  do  it." 

In  MacDonald's  mind  there  was  no  woman 
whom  sheer  force  could  not  tame  and  bring  into 
amiable  subjection. 

"Liar!" 

The  single  word  the  girl  was  now  using  in  an- 
swer to  all  his  protestation^  had  its  especial  sting. 

"If  you  won't  come  with  me,"  snarled  Mac- 
Donald,  "then,  by  God,  I'll  make  you!" 

"Liar!" 

MacDonald,  flushed  with  anger,  ran  toward 
her,  his  arms  extended  as  if  he  meant  to  take 
her  in  them  and  crush  all  resistance  out  of  her 
there  and  then. 

219 


THE     WOLF 

The  girl  sought  refuge  behind  the  big  solid 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"Take  care!"  she  cried  at  him.  "Take  care! 
The  wolfpack  passed  last  night !  It  was  a  sign ! 
Take  care!" 

"Hilda,  Hilda,  I  love  you!"  shouted  Mac- 
Donald,  desperately. 

"Liar,  liar,  liar!"  cried  the  girl  in  retort. 

And  it  was  thus,  with  the  word  of  denunciation 
on  her  lips,  with  her  slender  body  behind  the 
barricade  of  the  table,  her  yellow  hair  dishevelled, 
her  face  burning  with  the  shame  of  the  kiss  that 
MacDonald  had  forced  upon  her,  with  her  mouth 
expressing  scorn  and  her  eyes  flashing  a  great 
anger,  while  MacDonald  stood  at  bay,  his  face 
gone  from  red  to  white,  his  eyes  glittering  men- 
acingly, his  big  body  shaken  with  excitement, 
that  old  McTavish,  entering  the  room,  found  the 
girl  and  the  man. 

He  stared  at  Hilda  and  then  at  the  engineer. 
220 


THE     WOLF 

He  screwed  his  old  eyes  up  to  make  sure  that  the 
impairment  of  age  on  his  vision  was  not  forcing 
some  queer  illusion  upon  him.  He  could  not 
recognize  in  the  defiant,  proud  carriage  of  Hilda 
any  resemblance  whatever  to  the  daughter  he 
had  known  so  long — the  child  of  whom  his  harsh- 
ness had  made  something  akin  to  a  cringing 
animal  in  his  sight. 

And  in  the  angry-eyed  MacDonald  he  could 
not  see  the  genial,  pleasant-faced  man  who  had 
come  into  his  life,  promising  so  much  wealth  and 
happiness. 


221 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"WHEN  YOU  SHOOT — KILL" 

Wondering  and  puzzled,  the  aged  McTavish 
stood  regarding  Hilda  and  MacDonald.  Then 
he  found  his  voice  and  addressed  the  engineer. 

"MacDonald,  mon,  what  is  it?"  he  demanded. 

"She  won't  go!"  cried  the  broad-shouldered 
man,  ferociously. 

"Hilda!"  yelled  old  McTavish,  as  much  amaze- 
ment as  anger — a  great  deal  of  both — in  his 
tones. 

"No,"  answered  the  girl.    Her  voice  rang. 

"I  told  her  what  you  said  to  me,"  went  on 
MacDonald,  speaking  swiftly.  "I  told  her  I'd 
take  her  to  my  mother,  but  all  she  did — all  she 
did" — MacDonald  paused  and  readily  drew  his 
face  into  an  expression  of  pious  horror — "was 
222 


THE     WOLF 

to  throw  herself  in  my  arms  and  beg  me  to  take 
her  away  from  you  and  the  Church!" 

There  was  genuine  horror  in  the  face  of  Hilda 
when  she  shouted  back  at  him: 

"Liar!" 

But  McTavish,  with  his  preconceived  belief 
in  the  yellow-haired,  innate  wickedness  of  his 
own  child,  gave  full  credence  to  the  charge 
that  had  been  made  against  her. 

He  saw  the  girl  in  wilful  wickedness  ridi- 
culing all  his  teachings  of  religion;  saw  her 
enamoured  only  of  the  stalwart,  handsome  man 
with  whom  he  had  left  •her;  saw  and  believed 
that  she  had  viciously  thrown  herself,  a  full- 
fledged  temptress,  in  MacDonald's  path. 

His  mind  so  charged,  the  old  man's  rage 
passed  from  the  flush  of  anger  to  the  dead  white 
of  ferocity.  MacDonald  himself  was  no  little 
abashed  when  he  saw  the  fiendish  expression 
— the  madman's  look — that  came  over  Mc- 
223 


THE    WOLF 

Tavish's  countenance ;  when  he  beheld  the  bent, 
gaunt  frame  straighten,  the  big  hands,  dis- 
tended and  trembling,  reaching  toward  the  girl ; 
the  little  green  eyes,  under  the  heavy  yellow 
and  white  brows,  gleaming  with  murderous 
light. 

And  MacDonald,  who  saw  that  he  would  have 
to  interfere  to  prevent  the  actual  killing  of  the 
girl,  might  have  found,  with  all  his  strength, 
that  he  was  no  match  for  the  gigantic  woods- 
man with  the  strength  and  fire  of  youth  that 
was  gone  from  his  body  replaced  by  a  madman's 
strength. 

Hilda  might  have  lost  her  life  in  that  moment 
had  not  new  factors  appeared  to  block  the 
threatened  evil. 

It  was  her  own  last  cry  of  angry  denial  of 
MacDonald's  charge  that  acted  as  a  signal  call 
to  Beaubien,  who  with  Baptiste  awaited  outside 
the  house. 

224 


THE     WOLF 

Jules'  face  appeared  at  the  window  of  the 
room,  intent  and  dangerous.  He  saw  only  the 
tableau  of  the  ferocious  old  man  striding  to- 
ward the  girl  with  hands  extended  to  strangle 
her. 

"Ye  wanton!  Ye  strumpet!"  the  Scot  bel- 
lowed at  her. 

"Liar!  Liar!"  the  girl  said.  And  now  there 
was  the  high  straining  of  hysteria  in  the  tones 
of  her  shaking  voice. 

"Since  the  day  that  yer  unholy  mither  died," 
shrieked  McTavish,  beating  the  table  with  his 
fists,  "wi'  her  yellow  hair  and  black  soul,  an* 
left  me  yersel'  to  care  for,  I  hae  feared  this 
time  would  coom  in  yer  life." 

McTavish  continued  to  pound  the  table  with 
his  hairy  fist. 

"Ye're  nae  flesh  an'  blood  o'  me,"  he  yelled, 
"and  I  hae  me  doubts  if  I  begot  ye !    Ye're  the 
child  o'  some  o'  yer  mither's  lovers!" 
225 


THE    WOLF 

"Liar!  I  am  a  true  child.  I  am  a  true 
child!" 

"Ye're  nae  a  true  child.  Ye  belong  tae  the 
deevil  an'  hell's  yer  home,  an'  I  swore  tae  the 
guid  God  that  whenever  ye  became  the  wanton 
that  ye  are,  I'd  kill  ye  wi'  me  bare  hands;  an' 
I'll  do  it — I'll  do  it!"  screamed  the  livid-faced 
father. 

The  girl  had  retreated  behind  the  big  table, 
but  he  strode  after  her.  For  an  instant  Hilda 
staggered.  Her  head  was  thrown  back  in 
weakness,  and  her  throat  was  bared  helplessly 
to  the  strangling  grasp  of  the  great,  gaunt 
hands  that  her  father  would  have  clasped  about 
her  throat. 

Jules,  pausing  for  a  moment,  dismayed  by 
the  terrible  scene,  leaped  forward.  He  caught 
Hilda's  wrist  and  drew  her  behind  him.  Beau- 
bien  faced  McTavish. 

At  the  interference  of  Beaubien,  MacDonald 
226 


THE    WOLF 

half  started  forward  as  if  to  aid  McTavish,  who 
stood  glowering  with  wrath  to  find  the  young 
Canadian  interposing  between  himself  and  his 
daughter. 

"Wait  one  moment,  M'sieur  McTavish,"  said 
Beaubien,  with  snapping  vigor. 

Then  with  a  lift  of  his  head  toward  the  win- 
dow, the  young  man  called : 

"Ba'tiste!    Ba'tiste!" 

His  call  had  no  more  than  sounded  before 
the  sturdy  comrade  threw  open  the  door  and 
came  into  the  room,  his  Winchester  rifle  in  his 
hand. 

"Is  your  rifle  loaded?"  asked  Jules. 

"Oui,"  answered  Baptiste. 

"Stand  at  that  door,"  commanded  Beaubien, 
"but  don't  shoot  till  I  tell  you.  Under- 
stand?" 

"Oui,"  the  other  answered  briefly,  and  took 
his  assigned  post. 

227 


THE     WOLF 

"But  when  you  shoot — kill!"  cried  Jules  to 
his  aid. 

"I  onnerstan',"  said  Baptiste  stoically. 

Old  McTavish  found  his  voice. 

"Jules,  mon,"  he  cried  sternly,  "be  nae  inter- 
ferin'  wi'  me  family  affairs!" 

In  appeal,  however,  Jules  felt  the  hands 
of  Hilda  tightening  on  his  arm — the  tremb- 
ling, frightened  hands  of  an  awestricken 
child. 

"Can't  you  see,"  broke  in  MacDonald  fiercely, 
as  he  realized  that  Beaubien  was  outgeneralling 
him  and  that  his  scheme  to  possess  himself  of 
Hilda  was  on  the  very  verge  of  collapse,  "can't 
you  see  it's  the  Frenchman  who  wants  her — 
wants  her  for  himself?  It  was  a  Frenchman 
with  your  wife,  wasn't  it?  It  will  be  a  French- 
man with  the  girl." 

"Are  you  standin',  Jules,  between  faither 
and  child,  and  the  punishment  that's  due  her?" 
228 


THE    WOLF 

.stormed  old  McTavish,  further  stung  by  Mac- 
Donald's  taunt. 

"I'm  standing,  M'sieur  McTavish,  on  my  feet 
to  fight — to  fight  for  Hilda — for  Hilda  and  my 
dead  sister!" 

He  turned  suddenly,  in  response  to  the  touch 
of  the  girl's  hands  on  his  arm.  He  passed  his 
arm  around  her  waist  and  drew  her  toward 
him  openly. 

"There  is  nothing,  Hilda,"  he  said,  "to  fear." 

Young  Ferguson,  with  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up 
and  a  pen  in  his  hand,  came  into  the  room  with 
a  rush.  The  sound  of  the  high  voices  had 
reached  him,  and  warned  him  that  a  crisis  was 
at  hand. 

He  took  a  single  glance  at  the  group — Mc- 
Tavish with  his  big,  gaunt  hands  reached 
toward  Hilda,  and  Beaubien  shielding  her,  and 
MacDonald  looking  at  them  all  with  an  angry 
leer. 

229 


THE    WOLF 

"What  the  hell — it's  come,"  said  Ferguson. 
He  cast  a  single  glance  at  MacDonald,  and  his 
employer  looked  at  him.  But  Ferguson  turned 
his  glance  slowly  to  Beaubien. 

"Jules,"  he  said,  "you  know  what  I  told  you — 
count  me  in." 

McTavish  had  held  back  his  boiling  anger 
until  he  could  do  so  no  more. 

He  leaped  forward. 

"Gi'  me  the  girl !"  he  screamed. 

"Stop,  McTavish!"  shouted  Beaubien  in  his 
face.  "Stop,  or  I  speak  to  Ba'tiste." 

McTavish,  even  in  his  blind  wrath,  halted. 
He  looked  toward  the  door.  There  stood  the 
sturdy  companion  of  Jules.  It  was  too  plain 
that  he  was  holding  his  rifle  in  readiness  for 
instant  use,  and  McTavish  had  sufficient  reason 
left  to  know  that  Baptiste  would  shoot  in  abso- 
lute obedience  to  Jules;  and  what  was  more, 
he  would  further  implicitly  obey  the  injunction 
230 


THE    WOLF 

of  Jules  that  when  he  did  shoot  he  should  "shoot 
to  kill." 

The  hot  blood  of  Jules  destroyed  the  repres- 
sion in  which  he  had  been  trying  to  hold  it — 
trying  to  hold  it  as  he  had  watched  MacDonald 
seeking  to  encompass  the  ruin  of  Hilda — trying 
to  hold  it  through  the  exasperation  of  behold- 
ing McTavish's  cupidity,  leading  him  as  a  ready 
dupe  to  the  engineer's  craft,  and  through  all 
the  events  that  finally  brought  him  to  where 
he  had  listened,  a  few  minutes  before,  to  the 
woman  he  loved,  honorably  and  sacredly,  de- 
nounced in  the  repulsive,  unjust  expletives  of 
"wanton"  and  "strumpet." 

His  heart  throbbed  in  the  heat  of  his  anger, 
his  eyes  glared  ominously,  and  the  calm  tones 
in  which  he  had  been  speaking  rose  to  a 
ringing  cry: 

"You  call  yourself  her  father,"  he  shouted 
at  McTavish.  "You  are  not  as  much  her  father 
231 


THE    WOLF 

as  the  leader  of  a  wolfpack!  You've  beaten 
and  struck  her  heart  until  her  soul  is  nearly 
dead.  But  I've  listened  and  I've  watched,  Mc- 
Tavish." 

He  wheeled  and  pointed  a  quivering  finger  at 
MacDonald. 

"You  think  this  man  was  going  to  take  her 
to  his  mother  and  do  what  he  said — give  her 
a  good  home  with  a  sweet,  pure  old  woman? 
You  think  that,  don't  you?  Fool,  McTavish — 
fool!  That  man  has  a  wife  at  home.  It  was 
Hilda's  soul  he  wanted  to  steal.  That  is  his 
business — the  business  of  MacDonald — the 
stealing  of  the  souls  of  women !" 

"Ye  lie,  ye  French  dog!"  yelled  old  McTavish 
in  return.  "It  was  the  girl's  black  heart  an' 
her  yellow  hair.  Gie  her  tae  me !  Gie  her  tae 
me,  damn  yer !  Gie  her  tae  me  while  I  kill  her 
wi*  me  bare  hands!" 

McTavish  had  advanced  so  closely  that  Jules 
232 


THE    WOLF 

hurled  him  back  with  a  powerful  throw  of 
his  free  arm. 

"No,"  he  cried  to  the  staggering  old  man. 
"She  is  with  me,  and  so  she  shall  stay.  You 
say  you're  a  God-fearing  man,  McTavish.  Take 
care !  Take  care  that  you  do  not  answer  to  him 
for  the  soul  of  your  child!" 

Then  Jules  turned  to  MacDonald.  His  lips 
were  fairly  writhing  with  scorn  and  anger. 

"And  you — you  dog  of  dogs,"  he  said.  "You 
wolf-dog!  You  sneak  through  the  dark — 
through  the  dark — and  snap  at  the  heels  of 
good  women.  MacDonald,  I  stand  on  my  feet 
and  fight — do  you  hear?  I  stand  on  my  feet 
and  fight !  Annette,  that  you  tracked  and  killed, 
you  wolf-dog — she  was  my  sister!" 

Beaubien's  voice  suddenly  became  calm.  His 
words  were  uttered  slowly. 

"There  is  no  room  in  the  world,  MacDonald 
for  you  and  Jules  Beaubien  to  live  in.  Either 
233 


THE    WOLF 

I  die  or  I'll  send  you  up  to  Annette  to  look  her 
once  in  the  face  on  your  trip  to  hell !" 

"A-a-a-ah !"  retorted  MacDonald,  and  he  spat 
to  show  his  contempt.  "I  might  have  known 
that  you  were  the  brother  of  that  dirty  half- 
breed!" 

McTavish  strode  forward  again. 

"Gie  me  me  daughter  while  I  kill  her  wi'  me 
bare  hands,"  he  shrieked,  and  there  was  the 
foam  of  mania  on  his  lips  and  on  his  yellowish 
white  beard. 

Jules  ignored  the  old  man.  He  still  addressed 
himself  to  the  engineer. 

"MacDonald,"  he  went  on,  "I  am  going  to 
kill  you.  First  I  shall  take  Hilda  away.  But 
I  shall  come  back,  and  you — you  shall  die.  Do 
not  run  away.  Do  not  try  to  run  away,  Mac- 
Donald,  for  Ba'tiste — over  there — Ba'tiste,  he 
loved  Annette.  I'll  fight  you  fair.  He'll  shoot 
you  in  the  dark.  Make  your  peace  with  God 
234 


THE    WOLF 

if  you  can,  for  another  day  you  shall  not  live." 

"Gie  me  me  daughter,"  gibbered  McTavish, 
"while  I  kill  her  wi'  me  bare  hands !" 

He  plunged  forward  toward  Jules. 

Jules  had  a  strong  aversion  'x>  laying  violent 
hands  on  old  man  McTavish.  There  comes  that 
in  the  instincts  of  men  that  makes  sacred  the 
person  of  a  woman  they  love. 

Much  as  Jules  understood  that  this  father's 
warped  mind  and  queer  notions  had  made  his 
daughter's  life  a  hard  and  a  wretched  existence, 
still  he  had  withheld  open  physical  resistance 
until  it  became  imperative. 

It  was  no  longer  possible  that  he  should  do 
so,  for  the  old  Scot's  mind  was  so  inflamed  with 
the  thought  that  his  daughter  had  really  become 
the  wanton  that  he  had  always  suspected  and 
feared  she  would  become,  that  the  man  was  at 
the  moment  wholly  insane,  and  as  he  rushed 
toward  Jules  and  Hilda  the  gleam  in  his  eyes 
235 


THE     WOLF 

was  of  madness,  and  the  plunge  of  his  big, 
gaunt  body  showed  absolute  recklessness,  ab- 
solute loss  of  all  control. 

Jules  suddenly  pushed  Hilda  aside  and  met 
the  old  man.  The  shock  of  the  collision  stag- 
gered both.  But  in  such  physical  encounters 
youth  must  ever  prevail,  and  Jules  in  a  few 
seconds  had  floored  the  aged  man,  huge  as  he 

was. 

Jules  was  admirably  self-contained  in  the 
heat  of  the  struggle.  He  used  only  such  force 
and  measures  as  held  the  father  back — back 
from  attacking  his  child — from  killing  her,  as 
he  had  declared  he  would  do,  strangling  her 
with  his  huge,  strong  hands. 

As  the  young  man  and  the  aged  man  fought 
across  the  floor,  Hilda  stood  benumbed  in  hor- 
ror and  MacDonald  and  Ferguson  watched  the 
struggle  excitedly.  Only  Baptiste  was  unmoved. 
He  stood  at  the  door  where  he  had  been  sta- 
236 


THE    WOLF 

tioned,  rifle  in  hand.  His  eyes  never  left  Mac- 
Donald. 

With  a  fall  that  sent  one  of  the  big  arm~ 
chairs  over  so  that  it  crashed  on  the  floor, 
Jules  and  old  man  McTavish  went  down.  The 
young  man  was  upon  the  old  Scot  and  his  firm, 
lithe  fingers,  as  they  fastened  on  the  white- 
haired  man's  throat,  killed  further  resistance. 
McTavish  lay  passive.  His  eyelids  fluttered 
under  their  thick,  heavy  eyebrows. 

Jules,  seeing  this,  quit  the  attack  instantly. 
He  was  about  to  arise. 

Then  MacDonald  suddenly  became  a  factor 
in  the  battle. 

The  rush  of  events  had  confused  him.  The 
struggle  between  Jules  and  old  McTavish  had 
held  him  spellbound.  He  had  not  understood 
the  character  of  Jules  before ;  he  had  not  before 
quite  realized  the  nature  of  the  love  that  Jules 
bore  for  Hilda.  He  had  regarded  Jules  as  one 
237 


THE    WOLF 

of  his  own  kind — as  a  hunter  for  pleasant 
liaisons,  unmoral,  flippant  of  life's  most  serious 
meanings. 

Now,  however,  he  understood.  He  under- 
stood that  Jules  loved  Hilda  as  a  man  loves 
the  woman  he  will  make  his  wife;  that  Jules, 
with  his  unspoiled  youth  and  romance,  was  a 
foe  not  lightly  to  be  considered.  And,  moreover, 
he  now  knew  that  Jules  had  double  cause  for 
hatred  against  him.  There  was  the  dead  sister, 
Annette,  furnishing  a  motive  for  destroying 
him,  that  had  moved  men  to  kill  since  the  world 
began. 

MacDonald,  realizing  this  plainly  and  ir- 
revocably, saw  here  his  chance  to  remove  Beau- 
bien — to  remove  him  permanently;  to  kill  him, 
as  he  well  knew  that  if  he  did  not  Beaubien  was 
bound  to  figure  as  his  foe  in  a  mortal  combat 
in  the  near  future. 

MacDonald  had  not  fear,  but  he  had  not  a 
238 


THE     WOLF 

sense  of  honor,  either.  This  sense  of  honor 
had  made  Jules  declare  that  when  the  time 
came  he  would  kill  MacDonald  in  open  fight. 

MacDonald  decided  that  Beaubien  should 
never  get  this  chance.  He  decided  'to  kill  Beau- 
bien at  this  instant.  The  repulsive  aspect  of 
the  act  he  contemplated  did  not  stay  him.  He 
decided  to  stab  Jules  in  the  back. 

His  keen  mind  saw  there  would  be  a  ready 
excuse  to  be  made  to  the  authorities  if  ever 
the  hand  of  the  law  invaded  this  wilderness. 
He  knew  that  it  seldom  did.  Surely,  what 
more  complete  defense  could  there  be,  if  he 
declared  that  he  killed  Beaubien  to  prevent  the 
young  Frenchman  from  murdering  an  old  man  ? 

He  could  take  Hilda  forcibly  to  New  York; 
he  could  silence  young  Ferguson,  and  then  he 
could  return  and  calmly  face  the  authorities 
and  tell  them  a  plausible  story  of  the  death  of 
Jules — a  story  that  they  would  promptly  be- 
239 


THE    WOLF 

lieve,  coming  from  so  famous  and  wealthy  a  man 
as  MacDonald — coming  from  a  man  who  could 
not  possibly  be  guilty  of  a  wrong  interest  in 
the  girl,  since  he  was  married  and  the  father 
of  a  family,  and  therefore  of  presumable  prob- 
ity in  such  matters. 

This  was  the  manner  of  MacDonald's  reason- 
ing. 

Acting  upon  it,  he  felt  quickly  for  his 
sheathed  hunting-knife  and  drew  it  forth.  He 
held  his  right  hand  tensely  at  his  side.  The 
light  from  the  lamps  glittered  on  the  keen  blade. 

Stealthily  he  advanced  toward  Jules  Beau- 
bien.  The  back  of  Beaubien  was  toward  him, 
and  the  young  Frenchman,  having  just  taken 
his  hands  from  the  throat  of  McTavish,  was 
slowly,  pantingly  arising. 


240 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  FLIGHT 

And  yet  MacDonald  had  reasoned  as  men 
may  in  such  moments,  utterly  without  all  the 
actors  in  the  scene.  There  was  Baptiste,  who, 
the  instant  MacDonald's  hand  had  sought  the 
knife,  had  levelled  the  barrel  of  his  Winchester 
at  the  engineer's  head.  And  more  surprising, 
there  was  Ferguson. 

Ferguson  acted  the  more  swiftly.  He  leaped 
forward,  faced  MacDonald  for  the  fraction  of 
a  second  and  then,  with  a  swing  of  the  arm, 
landed  a  heavy  blow  on  the  engineer's  chin. 

MacDonald  fell  to  the  floor  and  banged  his 
head  against  the  big  table  as  he  fell.  He  rolled 
over,  dazed,  struggling  to  regain  his  feet,  and 
yet  too  confused  to  do  more  than  grovel  on  the 
floor. 

241 


THE    WOLF 

Baptiste  lowered  the  rifle.  He  was  glad  of 
Ferguson's  interference.  It  had  relieved  him 
of  disobeying  Jules'  orders  and  shooting  before 
he  was  given  the  word  of  command. 

Jules  had  arisen  in  time  to  see  Ferguson 
knock  MacDonald  down.  The  knife  that  Mac- 
Donald  held  had  flown  from  his  grasp  as  he 
fell,  and  Beaubien  was  enabled  by  the  flying 
steel  to  understand  the  situation. 

"Merci!"  he  called  to  Ferguson. 

Hilda  had  sunk  in  the  chair.  She  had  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  to  shut  out  the  sight 
of  the  desperate  fight  between  Jules  and  her 
father. 

She,  too,  had  looked  up  in  time  to  see  the 
knife  as  it  flew  from  MacDonald's  hand  as  he 
received  the  strong,  swift  blow  from  young 
Ferguson. 

"Hilda — to  me !"  called  Jules.    He  caught  her 
by  the  hands  and  lifted  her  from  the  chair. 
242 


THE    WOLF 

"Where  to,  Jules?"  asked  Ferguson.  "You 
know  I  said  I'd  stick  to  you  in  this  thing  to 
the  finish." 

"Merci,  Ferguson,"  said  Beaubien.  "We  are 
going  down  the  slope  to  the  river  and  then  to 
the  canoe." 

Hatless,  Jules  and  Ferguson  and  Hilda,  too, 
they  left  the  room.  The  faithful  Baptiste  stood 
at  the  doorway,  rifle  in  hand,  until  they  had 
passed  out,  and  then  he  followed. 

Old  McTavish,  recovering  slowly,  got  on  his 
feet. 

"Gie  her  tae  me — the  Wanton— gie  her  tae  me 
till  I  kill  her!"  he  screamed  hysterically. 

The  high  sound  of  his  voice  seemed  to  bring 
MacDonald  back  to  his  senses.  He,  too,  stag- 
gered upon  his  feet.  Outside  he  could  hear  the 
swift  footfalls  of  the  little  party  on  their  way 
to  the  river  bank.  He  cried  aloud  in  his  rage 
and  started  to  follow  them  out  of  the  room. 


THE    WOLF 

"Stop!"  said  a  thick,  full  voice  at  the  win- 
dow. 

MacDonald,  looking  in  the  direction  whence 
the  voice  had  come,  saw  Baptiste. 

"Damn  you!"  he  cried,  his  face  aflame  with 
anger. 

Still  he  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Stop!"  said  Baptiste,  very  slowly,  very 
calmly,  although  his  eyes  showed  the  deadly 
thought  in  his  brain.  "Stop,  or  I  keel !" 

MacDonald  found  himself  in  direct  line  with 
the  levelled  barrel  of  the  Winchester. 

He  fell  back.  Still  dizzy  from  the  effect  of 
Ferguson's  blow,  MacDonald  reeled  and 
clutched  the  table  for  support. 

Baptiste  waited.  A  low  call — a  sustained 
musical  cry — came  from  the  bottom  of  the  slope. 
Baptiste  knew  that  the  canoe  was  launched, 
with  Hilda  and  Ferguson  aboard  and  Jules  at 
the  paddle,  and  that  they  awaited  him. 
244 


THE    WOLF 

He  turned  suddenly,  leaving  the  window,  and 
disappeared  with  the  silent,  swift  footfall  of 
an  Indian. 

Hilda  said  nothing  as  she  and  Jules  and 
Ferguson  made  swiftly  down  the  narrow  path- 
way to  the  bottom  of  the  slope  and  still  she 
stood  silent,  watching  the  lithe  Beaubien  as  he 
launched  the  canoe. 

In  the  moonlight  she  saw  that  the  prepara- 
tions for  a  journey  had  been  made.  Provisions 
were  packed  in  canvas  bags  with  shoulder 
straps  that  they  might  the  more  readily  be 
borne  through  the  mountains  when  the  river 
was  abandoned  for  a  forest  trail. 

Jules  had  confided  to  none  his  exact  plans 
and  Hilda  hardly  knew  what  to  conjecture  as 
to  the  present  journey  and  where  its  final  des- 
tination would  take  her. 

But  she  did  know  that  her  heart  told  her  to 
trust  this  man,  who  had  exposed  the  villainy 
245 


THE    WOLF 

of  MacDonald  and  saved  her  from  the  unjust 
punishment  that  her  father  would  have  made 
her  suffer. 

She  knew  the  queer  old  man  well  enough  to 
understand  that  but  for  the  presence  of  Jules 
and  his  friends,  he  would  have  carried  out  his 
threat  of  strangling  her  with  his  own  hands 
to  the  very  death. 

Hilda  made  up  her  mind  that,  whatever  the 
fate  which  had  thrown  her  so  completely  and 
dependency  in  the  care  of  Jules  Beaubien,  she 
had  really  nothing  to  fear;  that  in  the  clean, 
fair  mind  of  this  young  son  of  the  forest,  there 
could  not  possibly  lurk  any  of  the  thoughts  that 
soiled  the  brain  of  the  unprincipled  Mac- 
Donald. 

As  for  Jules,  he  felt  that  the  girl  trusted  him. 
And  these  were  moments  for  action  only. 
There  was  not  now  the  time  to  make  full  ex- 
planation of  his  plans  to  her;  nor  was  this 
246 


THE     WOLF 

moment  the  time  to  be  chosen  to  speak  to  her 
of  his  exalted  love  and  ask  her  to  become  his 
wife. 

He  felt  that  there  would  be  something  unfair 
in  broaching  such  a  subject  at  such  a  moment, 
even  were  there  leisure  to  do  so. 

The  girl  was  absolutely  dependent  upon  him 
and  his  protection  now.  She  might  consent  to 
marriage  with  him  purely  out  of  gratitude  for 
what  he  was  doing  for  her. 

He  had  come  to  believe  that  she  liked  him — 
liked  him  very  much.  But  whether  her  senti- 
ments were  stronger  than  that,  whether  they 
reached  the  depths  of  the  great  passion  that 
make  a  man  and  a  woman  indispensable  to 
each  other's  worldly  happiness,  he  did  not  know. 
He  was  not  sure. 

He  hoped  and  believed  that  Hilda  loved  him. 
The  time  was  coming  in  a  very  little  while 
when  he  would  learn  if  she  really  loved  him. 
247 


THE     WOLF 

He  would  be  patient  for  a  little  time  longer. 
Men  who  live  in  the  forests,  who  hunt  in  the 
vast  woods  and  fish  by  the  silent  streams,  learn 
as  a  first  lesson  of  necessity  the  steady  fortitude 
of  patience. 

Beaubien  wondered  if  the  girl  was  frightened 
at  the  position  in  which  she  found  herself.  He 
sought  to  convey  reassurance  by  his  every 
action — in  the  courtly  and  respectful  touch 
of  his  hand  upon  her  arm  as  he  helped  her  to 
embark  in  the  canoe,  in  his  quiet  smile  and  his 
little  hurried  speech  complimenting  her  upon 
the  steadiness  of  courage  that  she  was  showing 
after  the  tragic  ordeal  endured  a  few  minutes 
before  in  her  father's  house. 

With  the  canoe  launched,  the  little  party 
waited  in  anxious  silence  for  the  coming  of 
Baptiste.  They  could  not  be  sure  what  might 
happen  there  with  two  defeated  and  chagrined 
men  on  the  one  side  and  the  sturdy  Baptiste, 
248 


THE     WOLF 

so  filled  with  hatred  for  the  man  whom  he  held 
defenseless  under  the  aim  of  his  rifle. 

If  MacDonald's  rage  moved  him  to  attempt 
the  least  resistance,  Jules  understood  that  Bap- 
tiste  would  only  too  gladly  take  the  opportunity 
to  revenge  himself  for  the  betrayal  and  robbery 
of  his  little  sweetheart,  Annette. 

It  was  with  a  premonition  that  he  was  soon 
to  hear  the  report  of  a  rifle  shot  that  Jules 
waited.  It  was  this  that  had  prompted  him 
to  utter  the  woodland  call  that  had  long  been 
a  signal  of  communication  between  these  com- 
panions of  the  forest. 

But  there  was  no  shot. 

Baptiste  suddenly  and  mysteriously  appeared 
among  them.  So  sure  was  his  footing,  so  prac- 
ticed and  silent  his  footfall,  that  none  had 
heard  his  coming. 

He  said  nothing — this  square,  squat  woods- 
man, but  as  softly  and  silently  assumed  his 
249 


THE     WOLF 

place  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe  and  took  up  the 
paddle. 

In  the  stern  sat  Jules,  paddle  also  in  hand. 
Simultaneously  the  blades  were  dipped  in  the 
water  and  the  light,  graceful  boat  shot  out  into 
the  mountain  stream. 

The  flight  was  to  be  long ;  the  toil  of  it  ardu- 
ous. 

The  Wind  River  would  have  to  be  followed 
for  miles  through  the  lowlands. 

Finally  Jules,  in  his  mind,  saw  the  goal  of 
the  Massequan  reached.  This  is  the  point  where 
the  silver  Wind  River  flows  into  the  larger 
stream  and  its  limpid  waters  are  merged  and 
clouded  by  the  yellow,  broad  Massequan. 

To  Jules  and  to  Baptiste  the  topography  of 
the  country  they  were  following  was  an  open 
book.  Once  entering  the  Massequan,  one  en- 
countered many  small  tributaries  that  led  off 
into  the  woodland  fastnesses.  Jules  had  in 
250 


THE    WOLF 

mind  a  certain  nameless  tributary  that  led  to 
a  portage  from  which  point  the  journey  would 
be  taken  over  the  mountains. 

This  journey  could  be  so  arranged  as  to  be 
wholly  concealed  from  any  enemy  that  might 
follow,  and  at  night  they  could  again  launch 
their  canoe  and  proceed  by  the  mountain 
streams  until  finally  they  would  arrive  at  the 
broad  highway  that  led  to  the  Canadian 
Pacific  Railway. 

And  from  this  point  it  was  that  Jules  in- 
tended to  send  Hilda  in  care  of  Baptiste  and 
Ferguson,  to  the  great  railroad  station,  and 
thence  with  them  on  to  Montreal. 

For  himself  he  would  not  make  the  journey 
all  the  way.  There  was  something  else  to  be 
attended  to  before  he  also  left  the  wilderness 
and  sought  the  city  and  sought  the  realization 
of  his  hope — the  hope  for  the  happiness  of 
making  Hilda  his  wife. 
251 


THE     WOLF 

There  was  the  duel  to  be  fought  with  Mac- 
Donald.  He  had  told  MacDonald  that  he  might 
not  live  another  day;  that  the  world  was  too 
small  for  them  both;  that  Annette  was  to  be 
avenged,  and  that  the  cost  of  MacDonald's 
awful  treachery  to  the  little  sister  of  him,  Jules 
Beaubien,  would  be  his  life. 

As  soon  as  Hilda  had  been  escorted  to  a  place 
of  safety,  had  been  carried  quite  beyond  the 
reach  of  MacDonald's  pursuit,  Jules  would  go 
back  over  the  trail — go  back  and  find  the  man. 

He  would  make  it  a  fair  fight.  He  had  prom- 
ised MacDonald  so  much.  He  fully  meant  to 
keep  his  word. 

It  would  be  a  duel  as  fair  as  ever  men  fought, 
but  MacDonald  must  die. 

Jules  believed  that  he  would  surely  triumph 

over  the  arch  enemy  of  Hilda  and  himself. 

Deeply  rooted  in  his  heart  was  a  simple  religion 

and  this  religion  declared  to  him  that  pure  jus- 

252 


THE     WOLF 

tice  was  on  his  side;  that  he  was  fighting  in  a 
righteous  cause  and  therefore  it  must  be  the 
will  of  fate  for  MacDonald  to  be  the  one  to  fall. 

And  what  would  MacDonald  do?  Had  he 
completely  accepted  the  defeat  of  his  plan  to 
possess  Hilda?  Would  he  instead  possess  him- 
self of  patience  and  wait  at  the  house  of  Mc- 
Tavish  for  the  return  of  Jules,  sullen  anger 
surely  in  his  heart,  the  desire  to  kill  burning 
in  his  breast? 

Whatever  his  weakness  and  his  viciousness, 
the  big  New  York  engineer  was  no  coward. 
Jules  remembered  that  even  under  the  cover 
of  Baptiste's  rifle  MacDonald  had  ventured  to 
attack  his  foe  in  chief,  and  that  in  all  prob- 
ability he  himself  would  be  lying  prone  with  a 
deep  knife  thrust  in  his  side  had  it  not  been 
that  little  Ferguson  had  splendidly  kept  his 
promise  to  aid  and  had  floored  MacDonald  in 
the  emergency. 

253 


THE    WOLF 

As  if  in  communion  with  the  thoughts  of 
Jules,  Ferguson  spoke.  His  were  the  first 
words  that  had  been  uttered  by  any  member 
of  the  little  group  in  the  canoe.  Up  to  that 
time  there  had  only  been  the  musical  dip  of 
the  paddles,  and  now  and  then,  off  in  the  forest, 
the  wail  of  wolves. 

"MacDonald  will  not  wait  for  you,  Jules.  He 
will  come  after  us." 

"Yes — yes,"  answered  Beaubien.  "My  good 
friend,  we  will  not  speak  of  that  now,"  added 
Jules,  for  he  had  seen  Hilda  start  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  engineer's  name  and  the  announce- 
ment that  he  would  probably  pursue  them. 


254 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  PURSUIT 

As  Baptiste  fled  from  the  window  and  made 
his  way  through  the  woods  to  the  canoe,  Mac- 
Donald's  first  instinct  was  to  rush  to  his  room, 
procure  a  rifle  and  start  in  pursuit. 

If  he  could  reach  the  river  bank  he  might  be 
able  to  get  a  shot  at  them,  as  they  might  be 
revealed  by  the  moonlight. 

But  a  second  thought  showed  him  the  fool- 
hardiness  of  this  idea.  Accurate  as  he  was 
with  a  gun,  he  might  have  been  able  to  pick 
off  Jules  and  Baptiste  from  ambush.  But  Mac- 
Donald  realized  that,  wild  as  was  the  country 
and  little  as  the  law  interfered  between  men's 
quarrels,  there  did  exist  a  mounted  police  who 
made  it  their  strict  business  to  capture  mur- 
255 


THE    WOLF 

derers,  and  there  was  a  law  that  was  inexorable 
in  punishing  murder  with  death. 

For  a  high  crime  like  that,  the  entire  force 
and  power  of  the  great  Canadian  Government 
would  be  set  to  work  to  track  him  down.  It 
would  not  matter  that  the  other  men  were 
armed.  To  shoot  and  kill  from  ambush  is  sim- 
ple murder. 

For  men  who  fought  each  other  openly  and 
fairly  the  law  had  a  lenient  eye.  Up  in  the 
mountains  such  duels  took  place,  and,  when 
the  fight  had  been  fairly  made  and  a  man 
killed,  the  law  stood  with  conveniently  averted 
eye  and  let  the  victor  go  his  way. 

MacDonald,  while  he  would  have  killed  Beau- 
bien  without  compunction,  winced  at  the 
thought  of  dying  on  the  gallows  as  the  price 
of  his  enemy's  destruction. 

Yet  Beaubien  and  Hilda  must  not  get  away. 
He  would  pursue  them.  Beaubien  had  promised 
256 


THE    WOLF 

to  return  and  give  him  open  fight:  but  there 
was  Hilda  who,  MacDonald  now  understood 
only  too  well,  was  in  love  with  Jules.  What 
might  her  pleadings  not  do?  In  her  fear  for 
the  life  of  the  man  she  loved  she  might  per- 
suade Jules  to  abandon  his  scheme  of  vengeance 
against  the  betrayer  of  his  sister. 

MacDonald,  inwardly,  rather  understood  that 
Beaubien  would  certainly  return.  He  did  not 
fatuously  underestimate  the  quality  of  the  de- 
termination of  the  young  Canadian. 

Assuredly,  the  first  battle  in  the  war  between 
them  had  ended  in  a  victory  for  Jules;  but  for 
this  MacDonald  consoled  himself  with  the 
thought  that  his  foe  had  the  benefit  of  the  aid 
of  Baptiste  and  Ferguson. 

He  frowned  blackly  when  he  thought  of  Fer- 
guson. He  could  not  understand  or  appreciate 
the  innate  decency  that  had  led  the  boy  to  act 
as  he  had  done.  He  only  saw  rank  treachery  in 
257 


THE     WOLF 

his  act.  However,  he  planned  no  vengeance 
against  Ferguson.  He  voted  him  as  game  too 
small. 

Old  McTavish  staggered  to  his  feet  from  the 
floor  where  he  had  been  left  unconscious  by 
Jules.  He  was  weak  and  dazed. 

"They've  gone.  They've  gone,"  he  muttered, 
and  went  with  unsteady  steps  toward  the  win- 
dow. "The  girl  has  gone — gone  like  her  evil 
mither — gone  wi'  a  Frenchman!" 

Old  McTavish  turned  to  MacDonald. 

"What's  tae  be  done,  mon?  What's  tae  be 
done?  Meester  MacDonald,  ye're  a  smart  mon. 
What's  tae  be  done?" 

"Why  didn't  you  do  something  when  you 
had  the  chance?"  retorted  MacDonald.  "There 
was  nothing  that  I  could  do.  But  as  the  girl's 
father,  if  you  had  had  enough  sense  to  get 
your  shotgun  and  kill  that  animal,  Baptiste,  I 
would  have  finished  the  other  fellow." 
258 


THE    WOLF 

"Ye  talk  foolishness,"  said  McTavish,  resent- 
fully.    "Yer  brain  is  overwrought." 

He  looked  thoughtfully  at  MacDonald. 

"I've  a  mind,"  said  the  old  man  after  a  little 
while,  "that  it  may  not  be  so  bad,  after  all — 
that  Jules  may  mean  well  by  the  girl.  And  you, 
Meester  MacDonald,  what  was  it  Jules  said 
aboot  ye  havin'  a  wife  yersel',  and  it  bein'  a  lie 
aboot  yer  intendin'  to  take  Hilda  to  your  guid 
mither  in  New  York?" 

"Do  you  believe  a  dog  of  a  French- 
man against  a  Scotchman?"  demanded  the 
engineer. 

In  the  logic  of  old  McTavish,  this  protest  of 
MacDonald  was  unanswerable. 

"I  mean  ye  nae  wrong,"  he  said.  "But  what 
shall  we  do,  mon?  There  was  a  day  when  I 
would  hae  gone  out  and  hunted  down  the 
strumpet,  and  never  rested  till  I  saw  her  deed 
wi'  her  yellow  hair  above  her  white  face.  But 
259 


THE     WOLF 

I  misdoubt  that  I  could  do  it  now.    I'm  far  too 
old." 

"You  stay  here,"  said  MacDonald  suddenly. 
"You  stay  here.  I'll  find  them.  I'll  have  the 
lives  of  those  two  French  dogs,  and  I'll  bring 
the  girl  back  to  you.  Get  out  the  canoe  from 
the  shed.  The  trail  may  be  long.  Put  some 
food  in  the  boat.  I'll  go  to  my  room  and  get  my 
Winchester,  and  this  very  night  I'll  start  in 
pursuit  of  them ;  and  when  I  find  that  dog  Jules, 
he'll  die." 

"  Tis  not  the  boy.  Tis  her,  wi'  the  black 
heart  o'  her  mither.  Kill  her,  Meester  Mac- 
Donald  ;  kill  her  and  keep  her  oot  o'  the  paths  o' 
men  tae  lead  them  tae  their  ruin." 

"The  old  fool,"  snarled  MacDonald,  as  he 
raced  to  his  apartment,  drew  his  rifle  from  its 
pegs  on  the  log  wall,  examined  the  weapon  and 
laid  it  on  a  table.  He  drew  on  his  leather 
hunting-coat,  adjusted  his  cartridge  belt,  and 
260 


THE     WOLF 

then,  catching  up  his  slouch  hat  and  the  rifle, 
went  out  to  the  shed. 

The  old  man  was  busy  storing  the  little  boat 
with  provisions.  He  brought  down  his  finest 
pair  of  paddles,  and  then,  carrying  one  end  of 
the  canoe  while  MacDonald  carried  the  other, 
they  wended  their  way  to  the  river  bank. 

There  was  no  word  of  parting.  Old  McTav- 
ish  silently  saw  the  engineer  depart  on  his 
errand  of  death. 

MacDonald  was  an  expert  with  the  paddle. 
The  light  craft  shot  rapidly  ahead. 

McTavish  stood  on  the  bank  and  watched  it 
for  a  long  time.  One  might  see  it  for  some  dis- 
tance, for  beyond  the  landing  the  ground  lay 
flat — a  level  of  brush,  with  only  here  and  there 
a  hemlock  tree  rustling  in  the  night  wind. 

Far  ahead  there  was  a  tiny  object  on  the 
water.  This,  perhaps,  was  the  canoe  bearing 
the  fugitives.  The  little  object  slipped  around 
261 


THE    WOLF 

a  bend  in  the  river,  and  as  MacDonald  saw 
it  go  he  plied  the  paddle  with  added  strength  of 
rage. 

He  recognized  that  the  pursuit  must  be  care- 
ful. He  must  trap  Jules  alone.  He  knew  that 
if  he  opened  fire  on  the  boat  he  not  only  risked 
the  killing  of  Hilda,  but  he  would  draw  the 
fire  of  three  against  the  fire  of  one.  He  must 
proceed  cautiously  in  his  desire  to  come  face 
to  face  with  Jules  and  settle  their  deadly 
quarrel. 

He  planned  his  best  manner  of  pursuit,  as 
he  sent  the  boat  shooting  swiftly  forward  with 
powerful  strokes. 

With  Jules  and  Baptiste  at  the  paddles,  as 
against  MacDonald  alone  working  in  his  canoe, 
it  would  have  been  strange  if  the  engineer  had 
ever  brought  them  within  sight  in  the  night's 
row  down  the  Wind  River  by  the  mouth  of  the 
Massequan. 

262 


THEY   WEBB   EVER  ALERT  WITH   THEIR  KIFLES  AT  THE  SLIGHTEST   SOUND. 


Page  263. 


THE    WOLF 

By  following  a  tributary — the  Little  Bear 
River — Jules  and  his  party  arrived  at  a  portage 
at  sunset  the  next  day.  The  men  had  builded 
Hilda  a  little  house  of  boughs  the  night 
before  for  her  retirement,  sleeping,  themselves, 
in  the  open.  And  they  were  ever  on  the  alert 
with  their  rifles  at  the  slightest  sound. 

Their  arrival  at  the  portage  of  the  Little  Bear 
River  was  a  huge  relief  to  Jules.  It  meant  that 
Hilda  was  absolutely  safe.  MacDonald  had 
been  so  far  outdistanced  that  nothing  could  now 
prevent  Baptiste  and  Ferguson  from  escorting 
her  to  the  railway  and  then  to  Montreal.  As 
for  Jules — he  had  another  thing  to  do. 

The  camp  that  was  pitched  for  an  hour's  rest 
was  at  the  bottom  of  a  winding  trail.  Great 
pines  and  hemlocks  sheltered  the  little  spot, 
and  the  Little  Bear  flowed  rippingly  along  a 
sandy  shore. 

The  canoe  that  had  done  such  good  service 
263 


THE     WOLF 

was  beached  nearby.  Baptiste  had  readily 
kindled  the  camp  fire,  and  Hilda,  indignant  at 
being  told  that  she  must  seek  rest  immediately, 
had  herself  prepared  the  supper,  boiled  the 
coffee,  fried  the  bacon  and  even  made  a  short- 
bread that  was  most  palatable. 

The  meal  finished,  the  little  party  sat  silently 
for  a  while,  their  eyes  contemplating  the  glori- 
ous autumn  coloring  of  the  foliage. 

Jules  arose  and  walked  over  to  where  young 
Ferguson  sat,  hunched  in  the  attitude  of  a  man 
wholly  spent.  The  young  fellow  looked  up  with 
a  start. 

"Time  to  be  on  our  way?"  he  asked,  with 
something  of  protest  in  the  query. 

"Not  yet,"  smiled  Jules. 

"Oh,  don't  stop  on  my  account,"  sighed  Fer- 
guson. 

"What's  the  matter,  my  friend  Ferguson?" 
asked  Jules. 

264 


THE     WOLF 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  the  youth  staring  in 
front  of  him. 

"Still  you  seem  depressed." 

"Aren't  you?" 

"No." 

"Well,"  said  young  Ferguson,  "I've  just  been 
thinking  of  the  pleasant  little  trip  we've  got 
to  take  to  Montreal,  and  of  the  hill  we  just 
had  to  climb  to  reach  this  bank  of  the  river." 

"And  that  depressed  you?" 

"Carry  that  canoe  on  your  shoulder  and  you 
will  be  depressed — anyway  half  an  inch,  what?" 

Jules  patted  him  kindly  on  the  shoulder. 

"Brace  up,"  said  he.  "The  worst  is  over  for 
you." 

"For  me?     What  about  you?" 

"There  is  only  one  thing  for  me  to  do." 

Ferguson  stared  closely  at  him. 

"You  are  going  back?" 

"Yes." 

265 


THE    WOLF 

"After  MacDonald?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  M'sieur  Ferguson,  that  is  exactly 
what  I  told  him  I  would  do." 

Ferguson  shook  his  head  ponderingly. 

"But  you  are  all  right,  now  you've  got  Hilda. 
What  are  you  doing?  Are  you  simply  looking 
for  trouble?" 

"I  told  him  that  I  would,  and,  of  course,  I 
will  do  it." 

Jules  spoke  with  no  bravado.  His  tone  was 
in  the  casual  character  of  a  man  who  spoke 
perhaps  of  a  business  obligation.  "It  is  a  plain 
duty  to  me  as  a  brother — even  if  I  had  no  other 
reason  ?" 

"What  other  reason?" 

"Hilda," 

"But  he  did  Hilda  no  harm." 

"He  tried." 

266 


THE    WOLF 

"Yes;  and  you  stopped  him." 

"Still,  don't  you  think  that's  enough  reason 
for  me  to  act?" 

"I  don't  know  much  about  this  here  business," 
said  Ferguson  with  a  flash  of  his  old  fun. 

"Why?" 

"Well,"  said  he  dolefully,  "look  at  me." 

"What  about  you?" 

"Well,  carried  away  by  the  sweep  of  senti- 
mentality, or  a  glance  at  a  pretty  girl's  face 
who  is  in  trouble,  and  I  manage  to  have 
promptly  made  a  monkey  of  myself." 

"I  don't  quite  get  you,"  persisted  Beaubien. 

"Well,  here  I  am—" 

"Yes,"  assented  Jules,  laughing,  "here  you 
are.  I  see  that,  M'sieur  Ferguson." 

"I  have  no  job." 

"That  is  true." 

"I  haven't  any  money." 

"Why,  that  is  easily  fixed." 
267 


THE     WOLF 

"And  I  haven't  even  got  a  hat.  Forgot  it  in 
the  excitement." 

"Well?"  smiled  Jules. 

"Well,  now,  if  I  had  just  landed  you  on  the 
jaw  instead  of  MacDonald,  I  would  have  had 
a  raise  in  pay  and  a  chance  to  go  home,  and 
everything  would  have  been  all  right ;  but — but, 
you  see,  my  magnanimity — " 

"Your  what?" 

"My  intuitive  desire  to  fuss  with  other 
people's  business  and  butt  in  at  the  wrong  psy- 
chological moment  has  made  me  one  indubitable 
dub — I  am  broke,  a  long  ways  from  home,  and 
God  knows  what  the  finish  will  be.  But" — 
young  Ferguson  turned  his  frank  face  to  Jules 
and  grinned  his  funniest  mischievous  grin — 
"but  don't  you  mind  this  wall  I'm  putting 
up,  Jules,  old  boy;  for  I'm  game,  and  down 
in  my  heart  I  don't  regret  it  one  bit.  But 

you?" 

268 


THE    WOLF 

"I,"  repeated  Jules,  "must  go  back." 

"Have  you  told  her?"  asked  Ferguson  with 
a  nod  of  his  head  toward  Hilda. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Jules  started  slightly 
when  young  Ferguson  asked  him  if  he  had 
taken  Hilda  fully  into  his  confidence,  as  to  his 
purpose  of  returning  and  fighting  a  duel  to 
the  death  with  MacDonald. 

Both  men  turned  to  look  at  the  girl.  She 
was  half  reclining  on  a  nest  of  boughs  that  the 
men  had  prepared  for  her  under  an  overhang- 
ing rock. 

She  was  staring  into  the  forest,  with  her 
large  blue  eyes  very  wide,  a  hand  supporting 
her  chin,  her  little  moccasined  feet  tucked  under 
her  rough  blue  serge  skirt. 

"Why,"  said  Jules,  finally,  "she  must  know 
that  I  intend  to  go  back,  for  she  heard  me  tell 
MacDonald  that  I  would." 

"Yes,  I  know  she  did,"  answered  Ferguson, 
269 


THE     WOLF 

"but  I  don't  believe  she  thinks  you  are  going 
to  do  that!" 

Jules  looked  again  at  Hilda. 

"When  are  you  going,  now?"  asked  Ferguson, 
in  a  voice  that  had  gone  down  to  a  whisper. 
"No,  but  very  soon.  I  will  leave  Hilda  with 
you  and  Ba'tiste.  You'll  begin  that  long  trip 
to  the  southward  to-night.  I  will  go  back.  I 
will  keep  my  word." 

As  if  Hilda  had  divined  the  purport  of  the 
talk  of  the  two  men,  she  suddenly  arose  and 
sauntered  toward  them.  She  smiled  as  she 
came  forward,  and  it  was  evident  that  she  had 
not  guessed  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 

"Mr.  Ferguson,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  Hilda,"  answered  the  boy,  rising  in 
haste  and  making  her  a  little  bow. 

"I  am  sorry." 

"What  are  you  sorry  about?"  he  asked. 

"About  you." 

270 


THE    WOLF 

"What  is  there  to  be  particularly  sorry  for 
about  me — outside  of  my  looks?"  he  concluded 
apologetically. 

The  girl  came  nearer  and  frankly  placed  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"What  you  did  for  me,"  she  said.  "You've 
made  Mr.  MacDonald  an  enemy,  and  that  is 
very  bad,  isn't  it?" 

"What  made  you  think  that?"  demanded  Fer- 
guson. 

"I  mean  for  you — the  position." 

Ferguson  laughed  at  her. 

"Well,  Hilda,  I  guess  I  never  was  much  of 
a  fellow  to  take  up  diplomacy  as  an  occupation. 
I  find  that  my  argumentative  faculties  are 
limited  to  such  an  extent  that  in  order  to  ac- 
centuate any  particular  point  of  a  debate  the 
logic  of  my  brain  quickly  descends  along  my 
arm,  rushes  into  my  fist  and  I  throw  it  at  the 
opposition.  When  I  was  in  school  I  started  an 
271 


THE    WOLF 

argument  by  saying  'It  is  not  so,'  progressed  a 
minute  until  I  called  the  other  fellow  a  liar,  and 
then  ended  in  a  fight.  So  what  I  did  to  Mac- 
Donald  is  second  nature  to  me.  And  any- 
way, I'm  glad  of  it  for  your  sake  and  for 
Jules." 

Jules  had  also  arisen. 

"Hilda,"  he  said,  "my  good  friend,  M'sieur 
Ferguson,  does  not  have  to  worry  about  posi- 
tions or  means  to  get  home.  I  can  attend  to 
that." 

"That  is  very  good,"  said  Hilda.  Then  she 
glanced  toward  Jules  and  asked: 

"Where  do  we  go  now?" 

As  she  spoke  she  swayed  and  fell  back. 
Young  Ferguson  caught  her.  The  girl's  face 
had  gone  pale.  Her  lips  were  trembling,  her 
eyes  wavering. 

"Hilda,"  said  the  youth  with  concern,  "you 
are  all  in." 

272 


THE     WOLF 

"You  are  very  tired.  Is  it  not  so?"  asked 
Jules  anxiously. 

But  the  weakness  had  passed.  The  girl  stood 
again  on  her  own  footing. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  be,"  she  said 
stoutly.  "It  hasn't  been  such  a  long  walk — 
not  so  much  walking.  Why,  it  has  really  been 
nothing.  Many  times  I  have  done  twice  as 
much.  But,"  and  again  she  trembled  and 
swayed,  "I  do  feel  weak,  terribly  weak." 

"Well,  you've  been  through  a  whole  lot," 
Ferguson  said  to  her.  "I  think  the  best  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  go  right  back  there  and  stretch 
out  for  a  few  minutes."  He  indicated  the  bed 
of  boughs  under  the  rock.  "Besides,  Hilda," 
we  three  fellows  have  a  lot  to  talk  about,  and 
it  is  only  right  that  you  should  rest.  This  is  a 
serious  situation.  Eh,  Jules?" 

"Oh,  not  so  very  serious.    But  I  think,  too, 
that  Hilda  should  rest    Oh,  Ba'tiste!" 
273 


THE     WOLF 

"Oui,"  said  the  faithful  companion  of  the 
man-hunt  that  was  now  drawing  to  its 
close. 

"Ba'tiste,  you  will  bring  some  blankets  from 
the  canoe  and  place  them  under  that  rock  for 
Mam'selle  Hilda." 

"Oui." 

Ferguson  and  Jules  took  Hilda  by  the  arms 
and  as  Baptiste  laid  the  blankets  they  led  her 
toward  the  couch. 

Hilda  withdrew  her  arms  from  their  hands. 

"Oh,  please  don't,"  she  smiled.  "I  can  go. 
Please  don't.  It's  no  trouble  for  me.  I'm  not 
as  bad  as  that." 

They  permitted  her  to  walk  to  the  couch  by 
herself.  When  she  assured  them  that  she  was 
feeling  comfortable,  and  already  began  to  feel 
new  strength,  they  walked  away  from  her, 
Ferguson  saying: 

"Now  you  just  pound  your  ear  there  for 
274 


THE    WOLF 

about  fifteen  minutes  and  it  will  do  you  a  lot 
of  good." 

"Even  if  you  do  not  sleep,"  added  Jules, 
"close  your  ears  and  your  eyes,  and  I  think  you 
will  be  rested." 

As  they  turned  away  Ferguson's  eye  rested 
on  Baptiste  as  he  knelt  over  the  canoe  arrang- 
ing some  of  the  supplies.  Ferguson's  boyish 
grin  began  working  his  mouth  again. 

"What  an  intelligent  fellow  he  is,"  he  said 
to  Jules.  "Some  time  when  I  have  nothing 
else  to  do  I'm  going  to  teach  him  to  lie  down, 
roll  over  and  eat  out  of  my  hand.  I  think, 
Jules,  there'd  be  money  in  showing  a  trained 
bunch  of  French-Canucks  like  him." 

"Ah,  M'sieur  Ferguson,"  interposed  Jules, 
"you  must  not  make  fun  of  Ba'tiste  as  you 
have  done  of  McTavish.  Ba'tiste,  it  is  true, 
he  has  but  little  brains,  but  he  has  one  great 
big  heart,  M'sieur  Ferguson." 
275 


THE     WOLF 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,  but-" 

"But  what?" 

"He  never  put  those  clothes  on." 

"Why  not?" 

"They  must  have  dropped  on  him." 

Jules  smiled  involuntarily  at  this  description 
of  the  stocky,  clumsily  attired  Baptiste.  He 
called  to  his  faithful  comrade. 

"Never  mind  about  Ba'tiste's  clothes,"  said 
Jules,  as  his  friend  drew  near,  "we  have  now 
some  plans  to  discuss.  Come  here,  Ba'tiste,  and 
you,  my  friend  Ferguson,"  said  Jules,  taking 
a  seat  on  the  moss-covered  ground  at  some  dis- 
tance from  Hilda.  The  other  men  followed  suit. 

"Listen  to  Jules  Beaubien  and  his  business: 
and  what  he  is  to  do  and  what  you  are  to 
do,"  he  said.  "There  is  serious  business  to  dis- 
cuss." 


276 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  LAW   OP  THE   WILDERNESS 

"There  is  serious  business  ahead,"  Jules 
said,  impressively  to  Ferguson  and  Baptiste. 

"Well,  if  you  should  ask  me,"  observed  Fer- 
guson quickly,  "there  is  a  damn  sight  more  seri- 
ous business  behind  us — MacDonald.  But  go 
ahead." 

"This  is  where  we  part,"  said  Jules. 

"Jules  Beaubien,"  said  Baptiste,  stolidly, 
looking  at  Ferguson,  "he  go  back  to  keel." 

"Yes,  that  is  so,"  assented  Jules  quietly. 

"I  go — lak  you,"  growled  Baptiste. 

"No,"  said  his  comrade. 

"Yes,"  said  Baptiste,  venturing  for  the  first 
time  in  all  their  companionship  to  question  the 
decision  of  Beaubien.    "I  go  along.    Eet  is  my 
business;  an'  MacDonald — he  wait." 
277 


THE    WOLF 

"Hold  on,"  spoke  up  Ferguson,  "if  both  you 
fellows  look  for  trouble  with  MacDonald  you 
can  count  me  out.  I'm  going  the  other  way — 
quick.  I  know  MacDonald ;  and  if  either  of  you 
has  got  him  doped  for  a  coward — well,  get  wise. 
He  is  low  down  when  it  comes  to  women,  but 
there  ain't  a  streak  of  yellow  in  his  system 
when  it  comes  to  the  fight  question." 

Jules,  with  his  eyes  on  young  Ferguson,  shook 
his  head  slowly. 

"M'sieur  Ferguson,  listen!  It  is  good  that 
Mr.  MacDonald  is  not  afraid  of  me.  It  is  good 
that  I  am  not  afraid  of  Mr.  MacDonald.  The 
time  has  come  when  one  of  us  must  die. 
I  have  spoken  these  words  and  I  mean 
them." 

"I've  no  doubt  you  do,  Jules.  But  what's 
the  idea?" 

"This,  then,  is  the  idea — the  thing  of  which 
I  would  speak  to  you,"  said  Jules,  as  he  drew 
278 


THE    WOLF 

a  paper  from  his  pocket.  Yesterday  morning, 
when  I  found  that  MacDonald  was  the  man  who 
killed — who  killed  my  little  sister,  Annette — 
and  when  I  found  out  that  Hilda,  too,  was  in 
danger,  I  knew  this  fight  was  coming;  was — 
what  you  say? — bound  to  come.  And  I  could 
not  tell  how  soon  or  in  what  way.  So  here  on 
this  paper  I  have  written  these  words.  Read 
them,  M'sieur  Ferguson." 

The  young  man  took  the  paper,  but  he  found 
it  very  difficult  to  decipher  the  words  on  it,  for 
the  twilight  had  begun  to  fall,  and  it  fell  very 
rapidly. 

The  sun  was  entirely  gone.  The  gray  light 
was  so  dimmed  by  the  shadows  of  the  big  trees 
around  them  that  the  paper  was  in  Ferguson's 
eyes  a  mere  blur. 

"Can't  see,"  said  Ferguson  finally.  "Some- 
body stake  me  to  a  match." 

Jules  produced  the  light  and  held  its  small 
279 


THE    WOLF 

flame  over  the  paper.  It  did  not  take  Ferguson 
long  to  read  what  was  written  there.  It  was  a 
matter  of  only  about  fifty  words. 

While  Ferguson  read  and  Jules  held  the 
match,  Baptiste  sat  sturdily  and  steadily  puffing 
at  his  pipe.  For  all  his  dullness,  he  could 
understand  very  well  what  the  paper  must  be. 

"I  see,"  commented  Ferguson,  putting  the 
paper  down  while  Jules  blew  out  the  little 
flame,  "your  will." 

"Yes." 

"Nice  pleasant  little  document  to  hand  a 
fellow,"  observed  the  boy,  with  just  the  slight- 
est sign  of  a  shudder. 

"Who  knows?"  answered  Beaubien,  practi- 
cally. "It  may  be  necessary.  Have  you  read 
it  through?" 

"No;  but  I  guess  it's  all  right.    What  is  it?" 

"This  is  my  plan,  my  friend;  I  leave  you 
both  here  with  Hilda.  You  will  go  down 

280 


THE    WOLF 

the  river  to  its  fork.  You  know  where  I 
mean?" 

"Exactly." 

"You  will  wait  there  until  to-morrow  at  noon. 
If  I  do  not  come" — he  addressed  Baptiste — 
"Listen,  this  is  for  you." 

"I  leesen." 

"At  noon,  if  Jules  Beaubien  does  not  join 
you,  you  will  come  back  to  find  Jules;  and  if 
you  find  Jules— if  you  find  Jules  dead,  then, 
Ba'tiste  Le  Grand,  it  is  for  you  to  kill  Mac- 
Donald." 

"Oui.    I  t'ink  I  want  to  keel  heem." 

Ferguson  was  startled:  these  men  talked  so 
calmly  of  killing  another  human  being.  He 
did  not  fully  understand  the  unwritten  law  of 
the  wild  places  that  makes  such  deeds,  under 
certain  circumstances,  wholly  up  to  a  native 
standard  of  justice.  He  was  revolted. 

"Well,  right  here,"  he  broke  in,  "I  want  to 
281 


THE     WOLF 

say  that  I  don't  want  to  be  a  party  to  this 
killing  business.  However,  it's  your  affair,  not 
mine.  In  my  country  a  punch  in  the  nose  gen- 
erally clears  up  these  things,  but  you  fellows 
have  got  a  dope  altogether  different.  But  you 
know  yourselves  better  than  I  know  you."  The 
boy  paused,  and  refilled  his  pipe  with  fingers 
that  shook  slightly.  "Only/'  he  added,  "I  hate 
to  see  this  come  to  MacDonald." 

"It  is  my  business,"  said  Jules. 

"Well,  I  knew  he'd  get  it  sooner  or  later; 
but  it's  going  to  be  tough — damn  tough.  And, 
besides,  Jules,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
the  law?" 

"This  law,"  said  Jules  calmly,  "is  the  law 
of  the  wilderness.  It  has  always  been  this 
way.  And  now  again  it  will  be  this  way." 

"How  about  the  Northwest  Mounted  Police? 
Can  you  get  away  from  them  ?" 

"This  is  a  duty,"  said  Beaubien  decisively.  "I 
282 


THE    WOLF 

have  promised.   I  do  not  fear  the  consequences." 

"But,  see  here,  Jules.  Do  you  think  Mac- 
Donald  is  worth  the  trouble  of  going  to  jail 
for?  And,  then,  don't  you  forget  something? 
There's  Hilda." 

The  men  arose,  Jules  leading  the  movement. 

"M'sieur  Ferguson,"  said  he,  "there  will  be 
no  mounted  police  and  there  will  be  no  jail.  All 
that  Hilda  has  to  fear  is  that  maybe  sometime  I 
will  not  come  to  her,  and  that  is  my  affair.  And 
whether  MacDonald  goes  home  or  I  come  to 
Hilda,  must  rest  with  me;  but  there  can  be  no 
change  of  plan." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  answered  Ferguson.  "That's 
just  one  more  reason  why  I'd  like  to  get  away 
from  this  country  and  back  to  the  United 
States." 

Baptiste  joined  in   the  talk. 

"If  you  no  come  at  noon,  Jules  Beaubien, 
what  den?"  he  inquired. 
283 


THE     WOLF 

"You  will  do  what  I  told  you  to  do,  mon  ami. 
And  you,  M'sieur  Ferguson — you  will  take 
Hilda  finally  to  Montreal.  You  will  go  to  the 
bank  in  Montreal  with  this  paper,  and  there 
you  will  give  Hilda  all  that  I  have,  and  you  will 
see  that  she  is  well  taken  care  of  all  her  life 
by  someone.  Will  you  not  do  this  for  Jules 
Beaubien  if  he  is  killed,  my  friend?" 

"Sure,  111  do  that  all  right,"  answered  the 
youth  quickly. 

"And  you  will  take  what  money  you  need  to 
go  where  you  will ;  and  you  will  always  have  the 
gratitude  of  Jules  Beaubien.  And  you  will  re- 
member me  kindly,  and  always  you  will  take 
care  of  Hilda." 

Promptly  young  Ferguson  took  Beaubien's 
hand. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  with  his  lad's  smile, 
"how  I'll  stack  up  as  a  guardian,  but  I'll  do 
284 


THE    WOLF 

the  best  I  can.  But,  on  the  level,  I  don't  like 
this  business  at  all." 

"Still,  it  is  my  business,"  said  Jules. 

"You  love  Hilda?    Eh,  Jules?" 

"Yes;  that  is  true." 

"Does  she  love  you?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me  I  think  she  ought  to, 
after  what  you've  gone  through  for  her,  and 
I'll  do  my  part,  although  I  don't  like  it — this 
killing  business.  And  I  don't  think  it  is  neces- 
sary." 

"Well,  M'sieur  Ferguson,  my  friend — that 
is  the  way  it  must  be." 

"I  just  want  to  tell  you  besides,  Jules — I 
just  want  to  say — well,  you  are  going  back  to 
MacDonald?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  that  he  won't  come  for 
you.  I've  known  him  a  good  many  years,  and 
285 


THE    WOLF 

while  in  this  particular  instance  I  think  he  is 
all  bad  all  the  way  through,  you've  got  to  give 
him  credit  for  not  being  a  coward.  You  under- 
stand, Jules,  this  is  just  a  tip.  Keep  your 
eyes  peeled  for  MacDonald.  He  knows  what's 
coming  to  him,  and  he's  an  American.  We 
have  a  national  characteristic  of  beating  the 
other  fellow  at  his  own  game.  That's  what 
made  us  a  big  people,  with  a  big  country.  Just 
keep  your  eyes  peeled." 

"Merci !  I  shall  always  be  ready,  Ferguson, 
my  friend." 

Ferguson  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe, 
rammed  it  in  his  hip  pocket  and  faced  toward 
the  canoe. 

"Well,  I  guess  we  all  understand  what  the 
programme  is,  and  the  sooner  I  get  on  my  way 
the  better  I'll  feel.  I'm  mixed  up  in  this  argu- 
ment, but  I  don't  want  any  stray  shots  or  other 
little  delicate  missiles  coming  my  way.  The 
286 


THE     WOLF 

farther  I  get  away  from  the  rumpus  the  more 
comfortable  I'll  feel.  Let's  go." 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Hilda  first,"  said  Jules. 

"I'm  on.    Alone,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes.    Alone." 

"Hey,  you,  Ba'tiste !  Let's  beat  it.  But,  no — 
you  stay  here,  case  of  accidents,  while  Jules 
is  talking — such  an  accident  as  somebody  ap- 
pearing suddenly,  like  I'm  thinking  every 
minute  MacDonald  may  do.  You  stay,  Ba'tiste," 
added  Ferguson.  "Nobody  minds  you.  I  even 
think  I  could  make  love  with  you  around  just 
as  easy  as  if  you  were  the  family  dog.  I'll  go 
and  wait  in  the  canoe." 


287 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"I  LOVE  YOU" 

With  the  thought  in  his  mind  that  he  might 
be  looking  upon  her  face  for  the  last  time  on 
earth,  Jules  walked  slowly  to  the  improvised 
cot  beside  the  rock  where  Hilda  was  lying 
with  her  eyes  closed,  and  the  beautiful  yellow 
hair  that  had  caused  her  so  much  misery  from 
her  father's  sharp  tongue  somewhat  in  disarray 
upon  her  sun-browned  forehead.  Ferguson  and 
Baptiste  had  disappeared. 

"You  are  not  asleep,  Hilda,"  said  Jules  softly, 
standing  above  the  bed  of  boughs. 

She  opened  her  eyes  slowly. 

"No,  I  am  not  asleep,"  she  said. 

"But  you  feel  better?" 

"Oh,  much  better,  Jules.  I  am  quite  strong 
again.  I  do  not  know  what  was  the  matter, 
288 


THE    WOLF 

except  that,  Jules,  last  night  and  to-day  have 
been  a  terrible  night  and  day — have  they  not?" 

"They  have  been  wonderful — this  night  and 
this  day." 

"Help  me  up,  please,"  said  Hilda,  and  he 
caught  her  arm  and  drew  her  to  a  sitting  po- 
sition. 

"Jules,"  she  continued,  "where  are  we  going 
from  here?" 

"You  are  going  to  Montreal." 

"That  is  a  long  way,"  said  the  girl,  a  little 
doubtfully. 

"It  is  a  long  trail,"  he  assented. 

"When  will  we  get  there,  Jules?" 

"You  will  not  be  long.  Soon  you  will  be  at 
a  railroad.  You  have  never  seen  a  railroad. 
It  is  quite  wonderful.  You — you  will  ride  on 
the  railroad  to  Montreal?" 

"And  you,  Jules?"  she  asked  suddenly; 
"where  will  you  be?" 

289 


THE    WOLF 

"Maybe  I  will  be  with  you,  Hilda." 

"Maybe  you  will  be  with  me?  Somehow," 
she  brushed  back  her  golden  hair,  "some- 
how, I  thought  you  would  always  be  with 
me." 

"That  is  my  wish,  Hilda — that  I  should  al- 
ways be  with  you.  But,  you  see,  no  one  knows 
now." 

"How  soon  will  you  know?  And  what  will 
you  stay  here  for,  Jules?" 

"Soon  I  will  know,"  he  answered.  He  paused. 
"And  I  cannot  tell  you  why  I  stay  here." 

The  girl  spoke  with  sudden  resolution: 

"I  cannot  go  without  you,  Jules.  I  shall  stay 
here,  too." 

"No,  Hilda,"  he  said,  hastily.  "It  is  not  good 
for  you  to  stay.  It  is  only  good  for  Jules  to 
stay." 

His  voice  had  the  soft  patience  of  one  who 
talks  to  a  loved  child. 

290 


THE    WOLF 

"Why  do  you  stay?"  she  asked.    "Please  tell 
me." 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  but  I  must  stay." 

Hilda  leaned  forward  and  looked  up  squarely 
into  his  face. 

"I  know  why  you  stay.  And  I,  too,  shall 
stay,"  she  declared. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  stay?"  he  demanded. 

"It  is  what  you  said  this  afternoon,"  she 
said. 

"I  don't  understand." 

She  arose  and  stepped  up  to  him. 

"The  great  desire,  Jules;  it  is  upon  me,"  she 
said  frankly,  "and  I  know  now  what  it  means. 
I  knew  the  moment  you  took  me  in  your  arms 
when  my  father  came  for  me,  I  knew  what 
this  feeling  meant — this  thing  that  has  had  hold 
of  me  for  two  years — ever  since  we  met." 

She  drew  back.     Her  voice  lowered. 

"But  I  do  not  know,"  she  stammered,  "I  do 
291 


THE     WOLF 

not  know  that  it  is  good  for  me  to  tell  you." 
"I  am  your  friend,  Hilda,  and  have  always 
been.  I  think  it  would  be  good  for  you  to  tell 
me  anything  now,  for  all  that  you  say  means 
much  to  me.  How  do  you  feel  ?" 

"I   have  learned   one   thing — one  beautiful 
thing  to-day,"  she  replied. 
"Yes?    And  what  may  it  be,  Hilda?" 
"Jules,  I  have  learned  that  I  love  you.    Is  it 
bad  for  me  to  say  that  I  love  you?" 

"No.  And  I  love  you.  And  I  always  have 
loved  you.  From  the  first  day  I  came  to  your 
house  I  saw  you  as  you  were.  I  did  not  always 
know  that  I  loved  you,  and  I  went  away  think- 
ing that  it  was  pity  for  you;  but  when  I  went 
to  the  North  and  lived  all  winter  in  the  ice  and 
the  snow,  with  no  one  but  my  dogs  and  Ba'tiste, 
then  I  knew  that  it  was  you.  And  always, 
every  year  since  then,  I  have  been  waiting  the 
time  when  I  could  tell  you,  and  you  would 
292 


THE     WOLF 

understand.    Do  you  understand  now?" 

"Yes,  Jules,  I  understand,  and  I  know,  and  I 
feel,  and  I  am  happy !" 

Her  voice  came  with  splendid  vehemence. 

"And,  Jules,  I  never  want  you  to  go  away 
from  me.  You — you  are  all  I've  ever  loved. 
Why,  Jules,  you  have  taught  me  what  love 
means." 

Jules  drew  her  head  to  his  breast  and 
whispered : 

"And  I  have  always  thought,  too,  that  I 
should  come  and  get  you,  and  every  year  I 
knew  it  was  my  duty  to  come  and  care  for  you, 
and  every  year  I  knew  that  if  it  was  not  then, 
then  it  would  be  another  year  that  I  should  take 
you  away,  because  I  seemed  to  feel  that  that 
was  the  way  God  meant  it  to  be,  and  I  loved 
you.  The  great  desire  has  been  mine,  and  it  is 
yours,  and  it  will  be  ours  forever,  Hilda.  That 
is  good  for  me  and  it  is  good  for  you,  and  I 
293 


THE     WOLF 

think  it  is  just  as  it  should  be,  and  there  will 
never  be  any  hardships,  and  there  will  never 
be  any  more  insults  or  complaints,  but  if  I 
live—" 

"If  you  live?"  she  cried,  clutching  at  the  arm 
he  had  passed  around  her  shoulder.  "Why 
should  you  not  live?" 

"You,  Hilda,"  he  said,  with  an  effort,  "you 
must  go  with  M'sieur  Ferguson  and  Ba'tiste, 
and  I  stay." 

"You  mean  that—" 

"Yes." 

"No,  no;  you  cannot  stay  here,"  she  said. 
"You  have  no  right  to  leave  me  now.  That — 
ah,  that  was  only  a  foolish  thing  you  said  about 
going  back.  I  cannot  let  you  go.  If  you  do 
go  back  I  am  going  with  you.  I'm  not  going 
to  let  you  do  all  that — not  for  me.  It  isn't  right. 
Besides,  he  did  nothing.  You  stopped  him. 
Why  do  you  have  to  go?" 
294 


THE    WOLF 

"Hilda,"  said  Jules,  gravely.  "Once  I  had  a 
sister." 

"Annette?" 

"Annette." 

"And  that  is  why  you  are  going  to  go  back 
to  him?" 

"That  is  why,  but  not  for  Annette  or  for  you, 
alone,  but  for  other  Annettes  and  other  Hildas 
he  has  not  seen  and  has  not  met,  but  if  he  lives 
he  will  see  and  will  meet.  And  with  him,  Hilda, 
that  is  not  good." 

"It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  kill  a  man,  Jules," 
she  said,  gazing  into  the  forest. 

"It  is  worse,  Hilda,"  answered  Jules,  "to  do 
what  he  does." 

"Yes ;  it  is  worse,"  she  agreed.  "But,  Jules, 
it  is  right  that  I  should  go,  too.  It  is  right 
that  if  you  die,  I  shall  die.  I  cannot  have  it 
any  other  way.  I'll  be  frightened  without  you. 
Where  would  I  go?  Who  would  help  me?" 
295 


THE    WOLF 

Beaubien  drew  her  very  close  to  him. 

"You  will  go  with  Ba'tiste  and  Ferguson," 
he  said  gently,  "and  soon  I  think  I  will  join 
you.  Something  tells  me,  Hilda,  that  I  shall 
not  come  to  harm.  Something  tells  me  that 
we  will  be  together.  I  cannot  think  that  all 
this  has  gone  on  so  long  to  stop  now.  But 
I  said  to  MacDonald  that  I  would  come  back, 
and  the  word  of  Jules  Beaubien  cannot  be 
broken — cannot  be  broken." 

In  this  moment  Beaubien  felt  a  sudden  har- 
rowing grief  take  possession  of  him.  He  gently 
put  the  girl  away  from  him  and  walked  off  a 
few  paces.  But  the  girl  followed  him,  putting 
a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  looking  eagerly  into  his 
face.  He  made  a  great  effort  to  control  him- 
self. 

Young  Ferguson,  returning  from  his  stroll, 
saw  them.  He  could  understand  the  pain  that 
it  was  their  lot  in  this  moment  to  endure.  The 
296 


THE     WOLF 

boy  turned  his  back  as  one  unwilling  to  look 
on  such  privacy. 

"I  cannot  go,"  Hilda  said.  "I  must  always 
stay  with  you.  Let  them  go." 

She  motioned  to  Ferguson,  and  to  Baptiste, 
who  was  standing  by  the  river  bank,  looking 
up  the  stream — a  figure  as  motionless  as  if  he 
were  made  of  bronze. 

"Hilda,  you  must  go,"  said  Jules.  "It  is 
hard  for  me  to  let  you  go  now,  but  it  must  be 
that  way." 

"No,  Jules — no — no,"  the  calmness  was  leav- 
ing her  voice.  It  was  quavering. 

"I  love  you,  Hilda,  I  love  you!"  cried  Jules, 
and  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
mouth.  "And,  Hilda,  I  will  see  you  again.  But 
you  must  go,  and  I  must  stay,  for  it  is  my  word 
and  I  have  promised." 

"No,  Jules — no — no,"  she  answered. 

"To-morrow,  at  noon,  Hilda,  ma  cherie,  I 
297 


THE     WOLF 

will  meet  you  at  the  fork  of  the  Little  Bear 
River  with  Ba'tiste  and  M'sieur  Ferguson,  and 
there  will  be  a  priest,  and  there  you  will  be  my 
wife.  Wait  till  noon,  and  if  to-morrow  at  noon, 
at  the  fork  of  the  Little  Bear  River,  I,  Jules 
Beaubien,  do  not  meet  you — remember  I  am 
waiting  for  you  on  another  river  that  has  no 
ending,  where  there  is  but  one  Father,  who  is 
a  kind  Father,  and  where  there  are  no  Mac- 
Donalds,  and  where  there  is  no  complaint,  and 
where  there  are  thousands  and  thousands  of 
canoes  and  all  of  them  filled  with  angels  and 
floating  in  the  sunshine  forever  on  the  peaceful 
waters  of  this  river  Always  will  I  wait  there, 
and  whenever  you  come  I  will  be  there  to  take 
you  in  my  arms.  Au  revoir — au  revoir,  Hilda. 
I  love  you.  I  love  you." 

And  this  time,  as  he  would  have  caught  the 
girl  up  in  his  arms,  her  own  arms  were  out 
toward  them,  and  they  embraced,  and  in  this 
298 


THE    WOLF 

embrace  they  were  motionless  for  many  sec- 
onds. Then  Jules  would  have  disengaged  him- 
self, but  Hilda  held  him  tenaciously. 

"No,  Jules — no — no — no,  Jules!"  she  sobbed. 

He  averted  his  eyes  from  her  pleading  face. 

"Ba'tiste!"  he  called.    "It  is  time." 

The  bronze  image  by  the  river  bank  moved. 
He  came  slowly,  with  troubled  eyes,  looking  on 
the  girl  and  his  comrade. 

"Come,  Mam'selle,"  he  said,  with  all  the 
gentleness  that  he  could  put  into  his  gruff 
voice.  "Come,  Mam'selle ;  come." 

He  took  her  by  the  arm  and  drew  her  ii> 
the  direction  of  the  canoe.  Her  emotion  had 
reached  an  agony. 

"Jules — Jules,"  she  repeatedly  sobbed. 

And  Jules  did  not  dare  look  toward  her.  He 
stood  with  his  back  turned  to  the  canoe,  his 
hands  covering  his  eyes. 

Ferguson  looked  at  him  and  started  forward 
299 


THE    WOLF 

to  say  a  word  of  farewell,  but  the  sight  of  the 
man's  great  grief  caused  the  lad  to  turn  and  join 
Baptiste  and  Hilda  without  having  spoken  a 
word  to  Jules. 

With  Hilda  aboard,  Baptiste  motioned  to  Fer- 
guson to  embark,  and  then  himself  pushed  the 
canoe  out  into  the  stream,  and  with  quick 
strokes  of  the  paddles  the  little  boat  shot  away. 

"Jules,  my  love — my  love,"  sobbed  the  child, 
who  had  grown  into  womanhood  with  the  find- 
ing of  the  great  desire. 

The  rippling  sound  of  the  paddle  grew 
fainter,  and  Jules,  looking  up  into  the  darken- 
ing sky,  spoke.  It  was  a  prayer. 

"Oh,  good  God,  please  let  Jules  Beaubien  meet 
Hilda  at  noon,"  he  said. 

For   some   minutes   Jules   remained   in   his 

attitude  of  prayer.    All  the  while,  faintly  and 

more  faintly,  there  came  to  his  ears  the  dip  of 

Baptiste's  paddle  that  bore  Hilda  away  in  the 

300 


THE    WOLF 

canoe.  And  then  no  longer  could  he  hear  the 
dip  of  the  paddle. 

The  moonlight  that  had  flooded  the  camp 
darkened.  Rift  on  rift  of  clouds  piled  in  the 
sky  and  flooded  across  the  silver  orb.  Out  of 
the  forest  and  along  the  river  the  winds  grew 
chill — a  little  foretaste  of  the  blizzards  that 
the  winter  months  would  bring. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  winds  that  made  Jules 
shudder  as  the  thought  of  the  frightful  task 
that  he  had  ahead.  MacDonald  must  die.  Jules 
never  doubted  the  righteousness  of  the  purpose 
he  had  conceived  of  slaying  MacDonald. 

As  he  had  told  Hilda,  it  was  not  only  for  the 
sake  of  the  betrayed  Annette,  who  had  died  in 
the  torture  of  freezing  and  whose  tender  body 
was  rent  asunder  by  the  jaws  of  hungry  wolves ; 
it  was  not  only  that  MacDonald  should  be  pun- 
ished for  seeking  to  repeat  with  Hilda  his  crime 
against  Annette!  but  for  the  sake  of  unknown 
301 


THE    WOLF 

Annettes  and  Hildas,  Jules  asserted  to  his  mind 
and  conscience  that  MacDonald  deserved  death. 

He  next  pondered  on  MacDonald's  present 
whereabouts.  Had  he  calmly  remained  behind, 
content  to  have  for  a  battleground  the  very 
clearing  in  front  of  old  McTavish's  house, 
where  he  had  made  false  love  to  Hilda? 

Or  had  he  started  in  pursuit?  If  he  had 
Jules  did  not  believe  that  there  was  much 
chance  of  their  meeting  on  this  night.  The 
little  tributary  of  the  Massequan  that  he  had 
taken  in  order  to  reach  this  present  retreat 
had  been  used  principally  for  the  purpose  of 
baffling  MacDonald,  who  followed.  Yet  he 
knew  that  MacDonald  was  a  shrewd  man,  who 
might  have  reasoned  that  Jules  had  made  such 
a  move. 

But  there  had  been  two  men  at  the  paddles 
against  MacDonald  alone,  and  Jules  concluded 
that  if  he  started  late  at  night  and  made  his 
302 


THE    WOLF 

way  back  to  the  Massequan  he  would  be  in  line 
to  encounter  MacDonald  and  take  the  life  and 
death  issue  with  him  at  dawn  of  the  next  day. 

Jules,  therefore,  decided  on  a  few  hours'  re- 
pose before  starting  on  the  return  trip.  Bodily 
he  was  weary.  The  flight  had  been  a  hard 
one.  There  had  been  a  constant  use  of  the 
paddles;  there  had  been  the  rough  trip  over 
the  country. 

He  busied  himself  gathering  dry  wood,  and 
a  bright  fire  crackled.  He  thought  to  make 
himself  some  coffee,  and  taking  up  a  pannikin, 
moved  toward  the  brook  that  babbled  amiably 
and  softly  behind  the  big  rock  under  which 
Hilda  had  for  a  time  made  her  bed. 

The  clouds  gathered  even  more  thickly. 
There  was  only  the  light  of  the  fire  to  guide  the 
steps  of  Jules. 

Dipping  the  pannikin  into  the  brook,  he  re- 
turned with  it  dripping.  For  the  moment  he 
303 


THE    WOLF 

was  off  guard.  He  had  decided  that  MacDon- 
ald  could  not  possibly  have  caught  the  right 
trail. 

But  Jules  was  wrong.  MacDonald's  shrewd- 
ness had  kept  him  in  much  closer  pursuit  than 
even  an  experienced  woodsman  like  Jules  had 
thought  probable  or  even  possible.  And  luck 
had  played  in  MacDonald's  favor. 

He  had  decided  that  Jules,  Hilda,  Ferguson 
and  Baptiste,  in  the  little  canoe,  would  seek  to 
turn  off  from  the  broad  Massequan,  whose 
straight  course  and  flat  banks  would  have  made 
them  visible  to  their  pursuer  for  miles.  He  had 
reasoned  that  they  would  turn  up  one  of  the 
tributaries  and  then  go  overland  to  some  port- 
age that  would  bring  them  to  the  Little  Bear 
River,  and  make  the  journey  to  the  Canadian 
Pacific  Railroad  comparatively  simple  and  easy. 

His  luck  had  been  that  he  had  chosen  the 
right  tributary! 

304 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  DEATH   DUEL 

And  now,  as  Jules  moved  unsuspectingly 
from  the  brook  with  his  pannikin  of  water,  a 
little  free  play  of  the  moonlight  showed  a  man 
at  the  top  of  the  ascending  pathway  overlook- 
ing his  camp. 

The  man  was  moving  stealthily,  but  as  the 
moonbeams  played  upon  him  he  was  startled 
into  a  sudden  backward  motion  in  his  effort 
to  secure  concealment  behind  a  tree.  And  in 
this  sudden  movement  a  dry  twig  crackled  under 
his  foot. 

In  the  tense  stillness  of  the  forest  the  crack- 
ling of  the  twig  sounded  sharply.  Jules  heard 
it.  His  woodsman's  instinct  was  swiftly 
aroused. 

Jules  paused.  He  looked  at  the  pan  of  water 
305 


THE     WOLF 

in  his  hand,  and,  as  if  he  had  not  secured  as 
milch  water  as  he  desired,  he  calmly  returned 
to  the  brook  and  refilled  the  pan. 

But  all  the  time  he  was  listening — listening 
intently. 

The  man  above  moved  forward  again.  He 
was  in  the  act  of  bringing  his  Winchester  to 
his  shoulder,  when  again  the  crackling  of  a 
twig  under  his  foot  caused  him  to  dodge  be- 
hind a  tree. 

"MacDonald,"  whispered  Jules. 

Dismay  came  upon  him  for  an  '.istant. 

Here  was  his  deadly  enemy  behind  the  trees 
— his  deadly  enemy,  who  had  sneaked  upon 
him,  and  who  did  not  mean  to  make  it  a  fair 
fight,  but  evidently  meant  to  shoot  Jules  down 
from  ambush. 

And  Beaubien's  rifle  was  thirty  feet  away 
from  him,  standing  against  a  hemlock  tree 
near  the  camp  fire. 

306 


THE    WOLF 

The  fire  itself  was  fully  thirty  feet  away. 

"He  can  see  me,"  was  the  thought  that 
flashed  across  Jules's  mind.  "The  fire — he  can 
see  me !  My  rifle  there — by  the  tree !  He  does 
not  mean  to  fight  fair !  He  will  shoot  me  down 
like  a  dog.  At  this  very  instant  he  is  probably 
aiming  at  my  heart!" 

Jules  Beaubien  was  swift  to  recognize  that 
life  or  death  for  him  depended  now  on  his  cun- 
ning. If  he  betrayed  the  fact  that  he  knew 
MacDonald  was  up  there  behind  the  trees,  wait- 
ing to  get  a  good  shot  at  him,  MacDonald 
would  not  wait  but  would  open  fire  instantly. 
And  with  Beaubien  unarmed  there  could  only 
be  one  end  to  such  an  attack.  Jules  would  die, 
and  Hilda  would  wait  in  vain  for  the  return 
of  her  lover. 

On  the  other  hand,  Jules  reasoned  that  if 
he  acted  quickly,  and  yet  calmly,  there  was  a 
way  out  of  his  terrible  danger.  It  was  a  won- 
307 


THE     WOLF 

derful  test  of  nerve  that  he  put  upon  himself. 
But  he  triumphed  in  the  performance  of  it. 

As  if  completely  dismissing  any  alarm  that 
the  crackling  of  the  twigs  may  have  given  him 
when  the  sounds  made  him  halt,  Jules  strolled 
easily  toward  the  fire.  He  found  himself  able 
even  to  make  the  assumption  of  feeling  quite 
secure  and  unsuspecting  of  the  presence  of  his 
foe  by  whistling  a  bit  of  song  from  the  French 
voyageurs. 

Jules  reasoned  that  MacDonald  would  wait 
until  the  light  from  the  camp  fire  shone  fully 
on  him  as  he  approached,  thus  making  him  an 
easy  mark  for  the  deadly  bullet  that  MacDon- 
ald was  most  eager  to  send  into  his  heart. 

But  just  as  Jules  came  into  the  radius  of 
this  light,  and  just,  indeed,  as  MacDonald  had 
lifted  his  Winchester  and  was  aiming  as 
squarely  and  firmly  as  he  could  at  the  heart  of 
Jules,  the  young  Frenchman's  strategy  won 
308 


THE     WOLF 

him  his  life,  for  the  time  at  least.  For  Jules 
suddenly  dashed  the  water  from  the  pannikin 
he  carried  upon  the  fire,  and  in  an  instant, 
where  there  had  been  a  bright  flame,  there  was 
only  a  clogged  mass  of  soggy  embers. 

The  clouds  still  played  Beaubien  fair,  for 
they  absolutely  obscured  the  moon.  The  black- 
ness of  the  woods  was  absolute. 

It  was  a  terrible  duel  that  had  then  to  be 
fought — a  duel  in  the  dark.  The  wind  had  in- 
creased, and  it  wailed  through  the  trees  as  if 
Nature  were  crying  against  the  deadly  charac- 
ter of  the  fight  that  was  to  take  place. 

The  cry  of  the  wolves  sounded  again  and 
again.  Beaubien  shuddered  slightly  at  the 
thought  that  if  MacDonald  killed  him  his  body 
would  meet  the  same  horrible  fate  as  had  be- 
fallen his  little  sister,  Annette. 

But  he  shook  the  thought  off  angrily.  God 
surely  would  permit  the  fight  in  the  dark  to 
309 


THE    WOLF 

have  but  one  result!  And  Jules'  principal 
emotion  was  that  he  was  happy — the  hour  of 
vengeance  had  come. 

He  was  not  wholly  savage.  His  own  flesh 
revolted  at  the  thought  of  taking  human  life, 
but  his  absolute  belief  in  the  justice  of  killing 
MacDonald  wiped  away  the  protest  of  cultured 
instinct. 

In  the  inky  blackness  of  the  forest  there  was 
an  oppressive  silence  save  for  the  winds  and 
the  wolves,  and  these  sounds  came  only  in  inter- 
vals. For  the  most  time  MacDonald,  slowly 
stealing  down  the  bluff,  and  Beaubien,  trying 
to  locate  by  any  sound  that  might  be  vouch- 
safed the  presence  of  his  enemy,  could  each 
almost  imagine  that  he  heard  the  heartbeats  of 
the  other. 

"MacDonald,"  called  Jules  Beaubien,  "you 
have  cornel  It  is  well.  You  will  die." 

MacDonald's  first  answer  vas  a  shot  aimed 
810 


THE    WOLF 

in  the  direction  from  which  Jules'  voice  had 
sounded.    Jules'  rifle  rang  in  response. 

"Did  you  think  I'd  wait  for  you,  you  French 
cur?"  came  the  engineer's  voice,  tense  and 
thrilling  with  hatred. 

It  was  Jules'  rifle  that  rang  out  first  this 
time.  But  the  bullet  had  not  found  his  enemy, 
for  MacDonald's  Winchester  barked  back  al- 
most instantly. 

In  the  blackness  the  men  stole  softly,  hesita- 
tingly, hoping  for  another  sound. 

Jules  decided  that  he  himself  must  risk 
speaking  in  order  to  locate,  by  MacDonald's 
reply,  the  direction  for  the  shot.  Dangerous 
as  this  was  he  took  the  chance. 

"You  have  come,  MacDonald,  and  you  will 
die!"  he  whispered. 

MacDonald,   beside  himself  with  rage  and 
hatred  against  the  man  who  had  so  far  out- 
generalled  and  defeated  him — defeated  him  and 
311 


THE     WOLF 

the  evil  passions  that  ruled  his  life — was  moved 
to  cry  out  at  the  risk  of  his  own. 

"Die!  Damn  you,  it's  not  in  you  to  kill  me! 
Do  you  hear  the  wolves  howling?  You'll  go 
to  them." 

There  was  another  exchange  of  shots  in  the 
darkness,  and  then  MacDonald's  voice  rose 
again : 

"111  hand  you  to  the  wolfpack.  You  will 
be  easy  picking  for  them.  I  will  send  you  to 
that  half-breed  sister  of  yours.  There  is  a 
heaven  for  mongrels.  That's  where  you'll  go !" 

It  was  evident  to  Jules  that  MacDonald 
would  not  have  risked  speaking  at  such  length 
if  he  were  not  behind  shelter. 

"Remember  what  I  say,"  cried  Jules,  "first 
you  go  and  see  Annette  and  then  you'll  be  sent 
to  hell!" 

A  bullet  sang  past  his  ear. 

For  a  long  time  then  neither  man  spoke. 
312 


THE     WOLF 

Each  could  now  hear  the  stealthy  footsteps 
of  the  other  as  they  moved  about.  But  still 
the  thick,  black  clouds  were  over  the  face  of 
the  moon,  and  not  even  a  gleam  of  light  could 
be  discerned  along  the  rifle  barrels. 

Then  out  of  the  darkness  came  two  loud 
cries — exclamations  that  involuntarily  came 
out  of  the  throats  of  Beaubien  and  MacDonald. 
In  their  efforts  to  find  each  other  they  had 
struck  against  each  other. 

The  impact  knocked  their  rifles  from  their 
hands.  There  was  no  time  for  either  to  stoop 
to  regain  his  rifle.  The  hunting-knives  were 
whipped  from  their  sheaths. 

"I've  got  you,"  said  MacDonald.  "I'll  cut 
your  heart  out." 

"Now,  MacDonald,  you  will  die.  Jules  Beau- 
bien will  kill  you,"  retorted  the  young  Cana- 
dian. 

The  black  cloud  passed  off  the  moon.  The 
313 


THE     WOLF 

silver  light  shone  on  Beaubien  and  MacDonald 
in  their  death  struggle. 

They  had  gone  to  the  ground,  and  MacDon- 
ald was  on  top.  But  quick  as  they  had  fallen 
Beaubien's  hand  had  shot  up  and  his  lithe  fin- 
gers closed  on  MacDonald's  throat.  The  en- 
gineer was  forced  to  give  ground.  Beaubien 
leaped  to  his  feet. 

The  wind  had  died  down.  There  was  a  single 
wolf's  cry,  and  in  the  quiet  camp  by  the  river 
there  could  only  be  heard  the  heavy  breathing 
of  men  fighting  for  their  lives. 

Time  and  again  each  sought  to  bring  a  knife 
thrust  home,  but  each  time  a  desperate  hand 
in  the  darkness  seized  the  driving  hand  of  the 
foe. 

For  a  time  each  clasped  the  wrist  of  his  foe— 

the  wrist  of  the  hand  that  held  the  knife.    For 

several  seconds  they  stood  thus,  their  chests 

heaving,  the  veins  in  their  foreheads  throbbing, 

314 


'DAMN  YOUR  KNIFE  I  I'LL  MAKE  you  EAT  IT  !" 


Page  315. 


THE    WOLF 

and  when  the  moonlight  flared  for  an  instant 
it  looked  red  to  them  because  of  their  bloodshot 
eyes. 

"Damn  your  knife!  I'll  make  you  eat  It!" 
panted  MacDonald. 

As  against  the  other  man's  strength,  the 
agility  of  Beaubien  won  the  awful  duel.  With 
a  sudden,  swift  movement  he  drew  his  hand 
free,  and  before  MacDonald  could  recover  him- 
self the  blade  of  Beaubien  sank  into  his  left 
breast — a  knife  fiercely  driven  to  the  very  hilt. 

For  a  second  or  more  MacDonald  merely 
stood  with  eyes  bare  of  all  light — great,  stupid, 
staring  eyes;  the  moon  now  showed  Beaubien. 
The  engineer  sank  at  the  feet  of  the  brother  of 
Annette,  the  lover  of  Hilda. 

Jules  drew  back.  He  had  put  his  last 
strength  in  tearing  away  from  MacDonald  and 
dealing  him  his  death  blow.  He  was  stagger- 
ing and  found  himself  sobbing.  Then,  as  men 
315 


THE     WOLF 

do  commonplace  things  subconsciously  immedi- 
ately after  they  have  faced  great  tragedies, 
Beaubien  leaned  against  a  hemlock  and  rolled  a 
cigarette. 

As  he  lighted  a  match,  he  glanced  at  the 
flame.  Perhaps  MacDonald  was  not  dead.  Per- 
haps he  was  only  slightly  wounded. 

He  knelt  and  passed  the  match  flame  over 
the  engineer's  face.  The  glazed  eyes  and  the 
dropped  jaw  that  were  revealed  to  him  by  the 
match's  flare  were  all-convincing.  And  there, 
on  his  knees  beside  the  dead  man,  he  lifted  his 
face  to  the  sky. 

"Oh,  good  God,  forgive  me  that  I  have  taken 
a  human  life.  Oh,  good  God — Annette — An- 
nette, who  was  my  little,  unprotected  sister." 

And  while  he  knelt — knelt  in  a      flood  of 
moonlight  streaming  from  a  cleared  sky — the 
long-drawn  howl  of  a  wolf  struck  his  ear.    And 
Jules  stared  back  at  the  body. 
316 


THE     WOLF 

The  long  howl  was  a  call.  The  dreadful 
creatures,  ever  watchful  in  their  tragically 
phantom-like  way,  seeking  the  scent  of  blood, 
had  found  it. 

Jules  looked  at  the  body  for  several  seconds, 
but  his  face  grew  hard.  He  got  suddenly  on 
his  feet. 

"No !  No !  I  will  do  nothing.  He  was  a  wolf 
himself!" 


317 


CHAPTER  XX 

FATHER  SEBASTIAN 

The  thing  was  done  and  done  as  Jules  de- 
sired. He  had  fought  MacDonald  fairly.  He 
had  killed  MacDonald. 

He  was  sure  that  he  would  never  feel  re- 
morse. It  would  be  a  chapter  in  his  life  that 
he  would  not  like  to  remember,  but  it  would 
be  only  because  he  would  never  be  able  to  do 
so  without  thinking  of  Annette,  the  little  sister 
whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  of  the  sorrow  and 
shame  and  death  that  came  to  her  the  very 
while  he  was  seeking  her  to  offer  her  protection, 
comfort,  even  luxury. 

Jules  felt  that  his  mind  would  be  at  peace. 
Jules  felt  that  God  was  not  angry  with  him. 

Solemnly  these  thoughts  went  through  his 
318 


THE    WOLF 

mind,  and  then  he  thought  of  Hilda.  It  had  all 
happened  very  soon  after  they  had  left.  Indeed, 
the  rifle  shots  must  have  reached  their  ears. 

He  raised  his  rifle  and  shot  into  the  air,  and 
then  he  lifted  the  low,  carrying  cry  of  the  wood- 
man. 

"Oh,  Ba'tiii— iiiste!"  he  called. 

And  in  a  little  while  the  silence  was  broken 
by  the  dull,  distant  note  of  a  rifle's  report  and 
the  faint  reply: 

"Oh,  Ju— - u— u— ules!" 

It  was  the  answer  of  Baptiste. 

With  swinging  steps  Jules  made  his  way 
along  the  river  bank.  Fatigue  was  no  longer 
on  him.  Hilda  was  there — Hilda  who  loved 
him — Hilda  to  whom  the  rifle  shot  and  his  cry, 
coming  faintly,  as  it  were — a  child's  cry — had 
been  a  message  of  wonderful  happiness. 

She  had  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  heart, 
and  sat  frightened  while  the  faint  sound  of 
$19 


THE    WOLF 

shots  was  heard — the  shots  that  MacDonald 
and  Jules  had  exchanged.  But  then  the  single 
rifle's  shot  and  the  faint  call  had  given  her  full 
reassurance. 

"Jules,  Mam'selle!  Jules  is  safe,"  Baptiste 
had  said  happily  to  her. 

"Hooray!"  cried  young  Ferguson. 

"Oh,  turn  back,  Ba'tiste,  turn  back,"  the  girl 
urged.  "Let  us  go  back  to  Jules." 

The  canoe  was  swung  about,  and  so  it  came 
that  with  Jules  hurrying  forward  and  the  canoe 
slipping  silently  back  over  the  course  it  had 
taken,  there  was  very  soon  a  meeting. 

"You  have  met  MacDonald?"  demanded  Fer- 
guson from  the  canoe,  as  Jules  stood  on  the 
bank. 

"MacDonald,"  answered  Jules,  quietly,  "is 
dead." 

The  canoe  was  beached  and  the  party  gath- 
ered on  the  shore.    Out  of  the  woods  came  the 
320 


THE     WOLF 

cries  of  wolves.  Ferguson  looked  suddenly  at 
Jules. 

"MacDonald — of  course,  there  has  not  been 
time — MacDonald  is  not  buried." 

"He  left  Annette  to  the  wolves,"  said  Beau- 
bien,  bitterly. 

The  cries  of  the  wolves  were  repeated.  Fer- 
guson's face  took  on  an  expression  of  horror. 

"Good  God!  I  can't  stand  for  that,  Jules," 
he  said.  "MacDonald — after  all — well,  Mac- 
Donald  was  once  my  friend.  I'll  go  back. 
There's  a  spade  in  the  outfit  in  the  canoe,  isn't 
there?  Jules,  I  helped  you.  Now  you  must 
wait  for  me.  I'm  going  back.  I  can't  leave 
MacDonald  to  the  wolves." 

"He  leave  Annette  to  the  wolves,"  declared 
Baptiste,  fiercely. 

But  Jules  shook  his  head  at  Baptiste. 

"Our  friend  Ferguson  is  right.  The  soul 
of  MacDonald  is  before  his  God.  It  would  be 
321 


THE     WOLF 

savage  to  seek  revenge  on  his  dead  body. 
M'sieur  Ferguson,  I,  Jules,  will  go  with  you  and 
help  dig  the  grave  of  MacDonald,  and  you, 
Baptiste,  need  not  help  dig  the  grave.  But 
you  shall  guard  Hilda  while  we  are  away  at 
work/' 

And  thus  the  wolves  were  cheated  of  a  horri- 
ble feast  that  night,  and  MacDonald's  eyes 
were  decently  closed  and  his  hands  decently 
folded  upon  his  breast  by  Ferguson  before  the 
earth  was  thrown  upon  his  body. 

Dawn  found  the  little  party  of  four  before 
the  log  cabin  of  Father  Sebastian,  a  Christian 
of  the  wilderness.  And  beside  the  cabin  was 
a  rude  log  chapel,  on  whose  little  spire  gleamed 
a  golden  cross. 

Father  Sebastian,  a  little  old  man  with  a 

child's  pure  eyes,  greeted  them.    He  heard  the 

whole  story,  as  one  would  tell  it  man  to  man, 

and  then  Jules  followed  him  within  the  rude 

322 


THE    WOLF 

church  of  the  woods  and  there,  kneeling,  made 
his  spiritual  confession  and  prayer  for  absolu- 
tion. 

And  later  it  was  agreed  that  Ferguson  should 
make  the  trip  to  the  nearest  headquarters  of 
the  mounted  police  guard  and  tell  all  the  facts. 
Baptiste  would  accompany  him. 

And  if  the  authorities  demanded  the  arrest 
of  Jules  Beaubien,  he  would  surrender  and 
stand  trial. 

"But  if  this  happens,  my  son/'  advised  the 
old  priest,  "you  have  little  to  fear  from  your 
fellow  men — no  more,  I  think,  than  you  have 
to  fear  from  the  verdict  of  your  God/' 

"And  you,  Ba'tiste — you  will  come  with  us 
to  Montreal  when  all  is  settled?"  asked  Jules 
affectionately  of  his  faithful  comrade.  But 
Baptiste  shook  his  head. 

"I  go  back.  To  the  North  I  go,  Jules  Beau- 
bien.  But  you  will  come  some  time  to  hunt 
323 


THE     WOLF 

and  fish,  and  then  you  will  again  see  Ba'tiste. 
You,  Jules  Beaubien,  have  your  love.  I  have 
only  the  prayer  to  make,  that  when  I  die,  then, 
perhaps,  I  see  Annette." 

There  was  a  perfunctory  investigation  by 
the  mounted  police,  and  then  Father  Sebastian 
performed  a  marriage  ceremony. 

Baptiste  went  back  to  the  North  woods  and 
Ferguson  went  back  to  the  civilization  whence 
he  had  come. 

One  day  a  lonely,  gaunt  old  man  came  out 
of  the  woods — an  old  man  who  averted  his  eyes 
insanely  at  the  sight  of  yellow  hair — and  he 
laboriously  went  up  the  gang  plank  of  a  steamer 
bound  for  Scotland,  his  native  land,  for  which 
alone  his  warped  old  heart  held  a  tithe  of  af- 
fection. 

The  dismal  old  Beaubien  mansion  has  wholly 
changed  its  character  and  never  in  all  its  days 
had  it  know  so  much  happiness  and  content, 
324 


THE     WOLF 

for  Jules  and  Hilda  with  their  little  son,  Bap- 
tiste,  and  their  baby  daughter,  Annette,  have 
taken  up  their  abode  there  and  the  old  servants 
and  the  old  neighbors  smile  among  themselves 
and  say  it  is  like  old  times  again  with  the  house 
of  Beaubien.  Sunshine  flits  into  all  its  rooms; 
its  hospitality  is  once  more  far-famed;  Hilda 
no  longer  knows  loneliness  and  sorrow  or  dan- 
ger and  the  cry  of  the  wolf  sounds  no  longer 
in  her  ears. 


THE  END 


325 


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THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MRS.  MERLIN 

By  Charles  Stokes  Wayne.  The  remarkable  origraaHty  of  this 
story,  through  the  author's  deft  art,  is  sure  to  command  at- 
tention. Mrs.  Merlin,  a  rich  widow,  with  no  thought  of  love, 
bar,«?ains  for  a  second  husband  for  companionship  in  her 
travels  abroad.  The  complex  occurrences  and  final  results 
are  woven  together  in  a  brilliant  manner,  making  it  a  book  to 
be  read  with  exquisite  pleasure.  Illustrations  by  Louis  F. 
Grant.  12mo,  cloth  bound,  $1.25. 

PRINCE  KARL 

By  Archibald  Clavering  Gunter.  Novelized  from  the  play  hi 
which  Richard  Mansfield  appeared  before  more  than  two 
million  people.  With  a  strong  heart  interest,  brimful  of 
humor,  it  is  a  story  not  to  be  laid  aside  mrtfl  fmishef*  IMP 
great  popularity  as  a  play  must  give  the  book  *o  *mme!/> 
X&mo,  cloth  bound,  with  frontispiece  iUustra&jK, 


DEVOTA 

By  Augusta  Evans  Wusoa,    A  poignant  tragedy  in  the  fives  JL 

two  persons — a  man  -t  sterling  character  and  a  proud  woman— 
who  are  separated  through  a  misunderstanding  and  kept  apart 
by  the  woman's  obstinacy,  only  *o  become  reconciled  after 
many  years  by  the  woman  mastering  her  pride  at  the  dictates 
of  humanity,  coming  to  the  man  she  has  wronged  to  plead  for 
a  criminal's  pr-rdon.  This  beautiful  story  is  properly  classed 
as  a  literary  cameo.  12mo,  beautifully  printed  in  two  colors, 
illustrated  from  f  ur  color  drawings  by  Stuart  Travis,  richly 
bound  in  cloth,  $1.50. 

THE  ROCK  OF  CHICKAMAUGA 

By  General  Charles  King.  An  historical  story  of  the  Civil  War 
in  which  General  George  H.  Thomas,  the  ideal  soldier,  is  the 
central  figure.  This  is  General  King's  masterpiece.  The 
actual  facts  and  details  of  the  story  cover  several  years  of 
careful  work  of  what  has  been  to  the  author  a  labor  of  love. 
12mo,  cloth  bound,  illustrated,  $1.50. 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  SUCCESSFUL  HUSBAND 

By  Casper  S.  Tost.  Neither  a  text  book  nor  a  story,  but  a  series 
of  letters  from  a  father  to  his  son.  In  it  are  the  practical 
questions  of  "spending  and  saving,"  "boarding  or  keeping 
house,"  "the  wife's  allowance,"  '^dollars  and  debts,"  rtthe 
wife's  relations,"  etc.  It  is  filled  with  witty  epigrams.  It  is 
a  book  that  should  find  a  place  in  every  home.  12mo,  cloth 
bound,  $1.00. 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  SUCCESSFUL  WIFE 

By  Casper  S.  Yost.  A  companion  book  to  "The  Making  of  a 
Successful  Husband."  With  the  same  quaint  humor  and 
homely  wisdom  that  characterized  his  letters  to  his  son  in 
"The  Making  of  a  Successful  Husband,"  John  Sneed  has 
written  to  his  daughter.  In  a  series  of  ten  fatherly  communi- 
cations he  gives  her  the  results  of  his  experience  and  observa- 
tion. His  advice  is  sage  and  practical.  Being  a  man  he 
naturally  looks  at  the  subject  from  a  man's  standpoint,  a  view 
which  no  woman  can  possibly  secure  of  herself.  12mo,  cloth 
bound,  $1.00. 


GARRISON'S  FINISH 

By  W.  B.  M.  Ferguson.  A  racing  story  of  intense  human  lutaMBi 
Garrison,  the  jockey,  is  accused  of  "throwing  a  race,"  but  in 
the  end  vindicates  himself  and  rides  a  remarkable  race,  winning 
fevor  and  fortune  and  the  girl  he  loves.  Illustrations  by 
Charles  Grunwald.  12mo.  beautifully  bound  in  cloth,  $1.50 


CHIP  OF  THE  FLY DSG  U 

By  B.  *t  Bower. 

CTQMMai*  critic  poonouBoes  it  ae  "equal  if  not  better . 

'Virginian.'"  The  name  of  B.  M.  Bower  will  stand  for 
something  readable  in  the  estimation  of  every  maa  aad  afapoet 
every  woman  who  reads  this  story  of  Montana  vaeoh  aad  ita 
dwellers.  Illustrated,  12mo,  cloth  bound,  $1.25. 

THE  RANGE  DWELLERS.    A  Thrilling  Western  Story 

By  B.  M.  Bower,  author  of  "Chip  of  the  Flying  U."  It  is  a 
thoroughly  lire  story,  with  plenty  of  local  color  well  laid  OB. 
Its  people  have  marked  characteristics,  its  scenes  change 
rapidly,  it  possesses  breeziness  aad  a  wealth  of  wholesome  love, 
aad  its  conclusion  is  satisfying.  12mo,  elofch  bound,  illus- 
trated, $1.25. 

HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

By  B.  M.  Bower,  author  of  "Chip  of  the  Plying  U,"  "The  Bange 
Dwellers,"  etc.  A  breezy,  western  ranch  story.  It  sparkles 
in  reproducing  the  atmosphere  of  the  West.  Strong  heart 
interest  aad  a  beautifully  pictured  love  story  make  it  a  most 
charming  book  and  a  fit  companion  to  "Chip  "  and  "Tbe 
Range  Dwellers."  12mo,  cloth  bound,  with  illustrations  in 
three  colors,  $1.25. 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  DIM  TRAILS 

By  B.  M.  Bower,  author  of  "Chip  of  the  Flying  TT,"  "Her  Prairie 

Knight,"  "The  Range  Dwellers,"  etc.  A  living,  breathing 
story  of  the  West,  out  beyond  the  Mississippi,  where  the  trails 
of  men  are  dim  and  far  apart.  This  is  the  best  story  that  the 
author  of  "Chip  of  the  Flying  U  "  has  written,  and  the  three 
full-page  three-color  drawings,  and  over  thirty  pen  and  ink  mar- 
ginal pictures  by  Charles  M.  Russell  (the  cowboy  artist),  with 
which  the  book  is  embellished,  make  it  a  handsome  book. 
12mo,  cloth  bound,  decorative  cover,  $1.50. 

WHERE  THE  RED  VOLLEYS  POURED.    A  Romance 
of  the  Civil  War 

By  Charles  W.  Dahlinger.  The  patriotism,  chivalry,  and  romaaoe 
of  the  most  eventful  period  in  American  history,  vividly 
presented  in  the  character  and  experiences  of  a  typical  soldier 
of  the  time — Paul  Didier,  a  German  revolutionary  exile,  who 
enlists  in  the  Union  cause.  The  story  begins  with  reminiscenee 
of  the  same  nature  and  in  the  same  charming  vein  as  Cad 
Schurz's  recent  autobiography.  It  insidiously  develops  into  a 
love  romance,  which  is  complicated  by  the  iiero's  provoking 
susceptibility  to  feminine  charms.  A  solution  is  finally  reached 
amid  the  thunders  of  Gettysburg,  a  battle  which  the  aut 
describes  with  the  pan  of  a  dswiatic 


Th*  MM?  of  a  Faithful  Woman 
Thtmten.  author  of  MTh«  Apple  «f 
ym  wwrt  to  matt  a  eharaota?  that  will  hold  your 
«ellbon»d?  Do  you  want  to  come  face  to  faot  with  some  of 
fee  knotty,  searchiag  problem*  of  our  modern  life?  The  readei 
will  find  ail  this  in  "Traffic,"  one  of  the  biggest  and  most  com- 
pelling stories  of  the  past  decade.  Throughout  Nanno  Troy's 
fife  problem  is  interwoven  that  question  which  is  to-day  of  such 
absorbing  interest:  the  attitude  of  the  Church  toward  divorce. 
la  no  work  of  modern  fiction  is  this  attitude  and  its  tendencies 
more  graphically  portrayed.  12mo,  cloth  bound,  $1.50. 


THE  STORY  OF  PAUL  JONES 

By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis.  Thousands  anu  ten*  of  thousands 
should  welcome  this  charming  historical  romance.  It  is  a 
great  story  of  the  fortunes  of  the  intrepid  sailor  whose  remains 
are  now  in  America.  A  story  that  should  find  a  place  in  eve;-y 
library,  for  it  is  the  best  book  that  Mr.  Lewis  has  yet  produced. 
It  has  a  grip  and  a  fascination  that  will  last  long  after  the 
reader  has  emerged  from  its  delightful  spell.  12mo,  clotb 
bound,  illustrated,  |1.50. 


TONIO,  SON  OF  THE  SIERRAS 

By  General  Charles  King.  This  thrilling  frontier  story  has  for  fte 
central  figure  a  young  army  girl  with  two  lovers,  brother 
officers  and  classmates,  and  an  Indian  chief  of  the  Chief  Joseph 
type,  honorable,  incorruptible,  but  dragged,  as  was  Joseph, 
into  a  net  of  testimony  and  intrigue  that  nearly  wrecked  him, 
12tno,  cloth  bound,  illustrated,  $1.50. 


JHE  LINCOLN  STORY  BOOK 

Compiled  by  Henry  L.  Williams.  A  judicious  collection  of  the 
best  stories  and  anecdotes  of  the  great  President,  many,  of  the 
more  than  600,  appearing  herein  for  the  first  time.  12mo,  32C 
pages,  cloth  bound,  $1.50  net.  Postage  14  cents. 

WHAT'S  Ilf  A  DREAM.    A  Scientific  and   Practical 
Interpretation  of  Dreams 

By  Gust*vus  Hindman  Miller.  The  most  complete  and  exhaustive 
work  that  has  «ver  been  written  on  this  subject— it  contains 
over  10,000  dreamt.  The  author  has  used  material  from  the 
Bibl«.  classical  soUfO&i  and  medieval  and  modern  philosophers. 
Quotations  have  been  tnade  from  Camille  Flammarion's  ' '  Un- 
known ,**  The  Preface  is  a  valuable  feature  01  the  book  and 
fa  AH  failt- sating  way  o"  the  mtrtaphvsical  New 
1  :iio.  600  pages,  cloth  bound. 


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